Wanderer
by Everliah
Summary: He just stared at her. It was all he could do. She made him breathless and awake all at once. His heart was beating so hard against his chest, he was sure it would slip through the bone and escape from his ribcage. Draco didn't think that would be such a problem because he knew exactly where it would go. It would run back to her. [Post-war Dramione]
1. Jasmine

**AN: I know, I know, I've started loads of new fanfictions lately and bugged you all with notifications and I'M SORRY! I took a long look at the previous 'Wanderer' and decided it wasn't what I wanted but the reviews I had on it were lovely and optimistic so I refrained from deleting it and instead changed the title of that fic to 'The Eight Years We Wasted.' THIS, however, is much more what I had in mind, and so begins my first proper Dramione fanfiction! I hope you all enjoy:)**

 **Chapter One**

The stone underneath her feet was cold and sharp, chilling her bare skin and erupting goosebumps along her arms. She wrapped the blanket more firmly around herself but continued walking.

Hermione didn't quite know where she was going, only that she couldn't sleep because the castle was too eerily quiet and her mind was numb and there was something heavy, settled deep within her, that toppled precariously every time she tried to rest. It didn't help that she closed her eyes, and flashing lights from whizzing spells would assault the blackness lingering there. Every moment of quiet would lend itself to screams and yells, to a fear so debilitating she felt winded, and had to remind herself that this serenity was safe, that she could enjoy it, that she could just _breathe_ -

Hogwarts was not the place she remembered it to be.

Where once, these same stone walls had been the foundation of everything safe and magical in the world, all Hermione could see was death. There were spiders lurking in the darkness, and the swish of a cloak sent her searching for a superseding glint of a silver mask. It was as though every time she closed her eyes, or stared for a little while longer than necessary, she was back _there_. Back with the monsters and the screams and the threat of a pain so agonising you'd beg Death to take you.

She had thought coming back to finish her final year would have been healing, something like facing her past and raising her chin in defiance to show she wasn't afraid. This was not like that.

Instead, it all felt like another stab in her back, another flesh wound to match the scar on her arm. Instead of closure, all Hermione had gotten so far was more pain. Instead of covering the grave, she was drowning in the dirt, suffocating in the coffin along with everything else that had happened here.

She had not had a full night's sleep since she had returned two weeks ago.

Harry and Ron had been adamant they wanted to move on with their lives, and Hermione could honestly say she had been bitter. Though they deserved peace, she selfishly tried to persuade them to change their minds because Hogwarts was nothing without their competitive but fruitless games of chess and Harry's consequent groan of exasperation when Ron won yet again. They wrote to her every day, but Harry's signature could not replace the frown of concentration he would do when trying to understand something new, and Pig's friendly bite of her fingers was nothing compared to the heavy weight of Ron's arm as he flung it around her shoulders.

She missed them.

She missed normalcy. She missed everything they had been promised before the war had gone and ripped it away from them. Hermione missed living without the poisonous inflection of fear that quickened her heartbeat when she walked down an empty corridor on her own, and the way the three of them used to thrive on youth, gulping it down and wasting it. They should have savoured the way the sun felt on their faces, when their biggest worry was Snape's essay due in the following day. They should have savoured living.

Because though Hermione was more than aware of her heart thumping against her ribcage, she was also aware that what she was doing was not living. It was hardly surviving.

So she wandered along the cold corridors of Hogwarts for the thirteenth night in a row, wincing when her bare feet would step on something sharp, willing her jumbled mind to be quiet. She felt like a puzzle of her old self, mixed up and jagged with the broken pieces, stabbing anyone who tried to touch her. No matter how many hours she spent in the library, or how many of her favourite books she would read, Hermione could not get the pieces of her old self to fall back into place. She refused to believe she was broken. Maybe she was just lost.

The moonlight spilled in from the high windows, casting the castle in a conflict of light and shadow. Hermione made sure to avoid the light. It made her brain louder, caused her to squint her eyes, and frown. It made her feel too clean and exposed.

She wasn't clean. Her hands were as dirty as the next person's. Maybe even dirtier, drenched in so much blood it poured through her fingertips.

If she listened carefully, if she held her breath, Hermione could swear she heard it dripping on the floor as she walked, leaving a trail behind her.

She didn't know where she was going. She never did. She just folded back the red cover when staring at the darkness of the ceiling made patterns dance behind her eyelids, slipped out of the dormitory then Common Room and started walking. Tonight, she'd had the initiative to bring a blanket with her, sharply aware of the sudden gust of cold that had blown in from the Northern seas.

Hermione used to love snow, but the idea this year made her stomach sick.

She didn't know whether it was because every snowflake promised for the upcoming winter reminded her of an innocence and a playfulness she had wasted, or if it was the way it made her squint against the brightness every time she so much as glanced outside. There was a dull, throbbing ache inside of her when she remembered how the twins used to conduct the biggest snowball fights in Hogwarts history. Hermione wished she had tears to show for it, but her eyes were always dry nowadays. It was as though even her grief had given up.

She tugged the blanket closer to her body, leaning her head into the softness of it, and rounded the next corner. She stopped.

He hadn't seen her yet. That much was obvious. If he had, he would look no doubt as she felt; like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. He sat in the shadows, with his back pressed against the stone wall, head bowed so his face was cast in obdurate shadow. Hermione knew it was him though. She recognised the golden glint of his hair, and the promise of an angular, aristocratic face tucked into his cloak.

If she kept quiet, she could turn around and leave without him ever realising she was there.

Instead, for some reason she could not fathom, she found her feet moving closer to him. He looked up then, and his eyes widened fractionally before he continued to stare at her. She came to a stop when there were only a couple metres between them. Hermione frowned at the space, thinking it felt more like oceans.

"Are you okay?" she whispered. Her voice sounded harsher in the silence, louder. She cringed.

Malfoy's eyebrows knitted into a frown and he looked away. His thin lips were pursed tightly together. Hermione swallowed and it was only when he looked back at her abruptly that she realised he'd heard the way that life caught in her throat.

"I'm alive, Granger," was all he said in lieu of a reply. The laughter that followed was a huff of scathing disbelief, exhaled from his nostrils. He didn't look amused in the slightest. "It's more than what anyone expected of me."

Hermione tightened her arms around her. "I think the same could be said for both of us."

Now, Malfoy scoffed. There was a hint of something laced through the pale, sharp lines of his face, and it was the only emotion she'd seen on him since they'd come back.

"Everyone expected _you_ to survive, Granger," he told her, voice nearly choked on bitter mirth. "You're the brains, after all. Even if Potter hadn't come out kicking, we all expected you to. You've always been stubborn and I doubted a war would take that out of you-"

"I'm not surviving," she muttered brokenly. It fractured on the air between them and she _hated_ it. "I'm barely existing, Draco."

He looked surprised at that. His eyes were wide, almost scared, and he stared at her for what felt like hours but was in reality only a few stolen minutes they couldn't afford to keep. Malfoy cleared his throat and, though it looked to pain him, offered her a small smile. Hermione thought it resembled more of a grimace.

"Neither am I."

She sat down on the floor beside him, and there was still the empty space and so much more between them, but he bristled at the action. They just sat there, not exactly relishing in the other's company, and stared at the opposite wall, feeling the biting cold in the flesh of their backs and legs but making no move to leave.

"I knew the war was inevitable but I didn't think it would be like this," said Hermione eventually.

Malfoy frowned. There was a silent battle waged in his eyes but it seemed his curiosity won out for he asked, reluctance fringing his voice, "What do you mean?"

She licked at her chapped lips. "I thought I'd be happy. I thought I'd be relieved it's over… I am. I mean, of course I am. But there's too much grief to feel it completely."

"That's easy for you to say, Granger," Malfoy replied bitterly, and she looked at him to see his face twisted. The moonlight made him look haunting. "You came out on the winning side."

Almost absently, her eyes trailed to his ankle, and she could see the band of light peeking out from beneath his pyjama bottoms. It was a bright blue: _pending trial._

"I'm starting to think there is no winning side," she told him quietly.

He let out a derisive laugh. "Don't you dare, Granger."

"We've all lost, in some way or another-"

"Yes, but you're not about to be locked in Azkaban with only the Dementors for company so I think it's safe to say you win in this situation!"

His words were loud and rushed and they echoed along the corridor, ricocheting off stone and making them both wince.

Hermione looked at him, horror crawling up her throat. Her face felt slack. "They want to send you to Azkaban?" she whispered.

Malfoy held her gaze for a moment before he looked back at his hands. They were deathly white, long fingers with almost invisible scars written into the skin. They were trembling slightly.

"I'm an accessory to a number of murders, Granger. You should know that. You were there for some of them."

Without meaning to, her fingers brushed along her forearm. Malfoy noticed, and his eyes narrowed. He swallowed and looked away.

"But you're just a child," she murmured.

Malfoy's head ducked, and he muttered, "Does it matter?"

"It should!" fumed Hermione, and she felt that familiar burn of anger flare up inside of her. It surprised her a little, and it looked as though she'd shocked Malfoy too. This was the most emotion she had felt since the war. "You had no choice."

He offered her a tight-lipped smile. "Tell that to the Wizengamot, Granger. To them, I'm just my father's son."

She refrained from reaching over and taking his hand. Hermione shook herself and wondered where the thought came from. Maybe she was just so deprived of any human contact that her loneliness convinced her touching Malfoy was a good idea.

Even so, she breathed in shakily and said in the steadiest voice she could muster, "You aren't to me."

Malfoy froze. He didn't look at her, but she felt better that the words were out there for him to do with them what he liked.

This wasn't the same Malfoy that had tormented her through school. This was a boy as broken as she was. His pieces were like hers, clinging on for dear life, fraying at the edges so if anyone tried to get close, they would be deterred. He was drowning in loneliness.

Instead of replying to her, he picked at a loose thread on his cloak. Hermione thought it odd that anything he owned would be even the slightest bit shabby. He asked offhandedly, "You know why I'm here. Why are you?"

"I don't sleep much," Hermione offered. "The inside of my head can get noisy sometimes."

"Well, that's no surprise. It's all that incessant prattling you do," said Malfoy, but he was smirking and if she hadn't been so taken aback that he was actually joking with her, she would've had the urge to punch him.

Malfoy sobered up then and he stared at her, offering a strained smile. "My mind's pretty fucked up too."

Hermione didn't say anything, and they settled into a quiet companionship. She didn't dare call it anything else, lest she ruin it completely, for the sensation of having another heart beating next to her was too comforting to give up. It was only when the shadows shifted, and the darkness outside the windows lighted suddenly that they stirred.

She realised she should probably go to try and wring a few hours of sleep before the school day started. Maybe this wandering would tire her bones out eventually that her body would just shut down on itself.

Hermione adjusted the blanket around her shoulders and got to her feet. She stared at the floor, before glancing at Malfoy. He was frowning at his hands, twisting a silver ring around his index finger. She wondered if she should bid him goodbye, but though her lips parted, no sound came out, and she closed it again, turning on her heel and walking away.

Draco regarded her back reproachfully and he don't know what made him say it, but he called after her, "Jasmine tea."

Granger spun round. She shot him a demanding frown. Draco nearly rolled his eyes and stormed away from her there and then, but refrained from doing so. Figures that even her eyebrows would demand things of him. He mumbled, almost embarrassed, "That's what helps me sleep."

Granger's face cleared with realisation, and she looked at him with something resembling gratitude. He swallowed, and kept his lips sealed as she continued walking down the corridor.

The space next to him felt cold and empty, and he shifted his cloak tighter around his shoulders, head dropping. Draco sighed, climbing to his feet and setting off down the other side of the corridor.

There was nothing to suggest they had met at all. No witness. No portrait. Only the windows and the fresh, mellowing sunlight and the stone walls that had always been so chilling. They were just wanderers, who happened to be lost at the same time, desperately trying to find _something_ to make life feel like it was worth living.

Hermione woke in her bed much later on, the taste of jasmine lingering on her tongue. It was the most she had slept in a long time.


	2. Just Fine

**AN: I know. I'm rubbish. Positively rubbish! This is hopefully a {albeit late} Christmas present to you! It's KIND OF important, KIND OF a filler but I need to establish a narrative since the last chapter was very much CONTEXT then preview of what this fic is essentially. Anyway, I hope you like this! And I hope you all had a very merry Christmas!**

 **Chapter Two**

She'd overslept.

Her blankets had come loose from where she'd dragged them to under her chin, and were haphazardly strewn across her legs. One arm was splayed above her head, as though she was basking in the glow of the winter sun, whilst the other rested on her stomach, and she nestled deeper into her pillow. There was that unfamiliar stinging in Hermione's eyes when she blinked them open, that vague sensation of being doused in sobriety when she had just seconds before been deep in sleep. She hadn't woken to it in a long time, and when she craned her neck to peer groggily around her room, she was surprised to see that the sun was already soaking it. Usually, Hermione woke early enough, or didn't sleep at all, and was privy to watching the first tender and unsure rays of light explore their way across her dormitory, finding first her crimson drapes then stretching eagerly to devour the rest.

She took a minute. It was rare that she had anytime to herself these days, so she stole a moment; Hermione languidly stretched her legs, pointing her toes so they brushed the bedframe, and flexed her arms and fingers. A slow breath trickled from her lips, and she could taste the remnants of jasmine on her tongue.

Frowning, she retracted her limbs and sat up. Last night had been an odd one. For all her late night wanderings, she had never come across someone else- she'd never planned nor expected to. Least of all Malfoy. And yet…

Hermione pressed the base of her hands into her eyes so hard her skull ached in protestation. She couldn't shake the image of him sitting alone against the wall, where even the shadows kept their distance. The bite in his voice she felt as though it was cutting into her skin with the cold.

 _"I'm just my father's son."_

A small, frustrated growl tore from her throat and she kicked her blanket off and jumped to her feet.

Coming back to finish her eighth year had been a blessing and a curse. Admittedly, Hermione had very nearly declined the offer and twice, she had come close to owling McGonagall to change her mind even after accepting. The fact that Harry and Ron weren't there to make her laugh and keep her from locking herself in the library was difficult for her to stomach. She had been subjected to the privilege of their company for seven years, had lived with them, had shared the same bed with them when they were on the run. They were a family, and they'd been through a lot together. To go back to nothing so suddenly was jarring.

Hermione often felt the loneliness manifest itself as a cold and numb weight in her chest. Though Ginny and Luna were in their seventh year, and Neville had returned too, she frequently felt out of the loop with them. They had bonded last year when continuing Dumbledore's Army, and their shared resistance was like a golden thread tying them to one another. She found that everyone was like that.

Every person she looked at had some kind of string connecting them to someone else.

Hannah Abott returned and there was a red string tying her heart to Neville's. Hermione had stumbled across them holding hands, faces close together, whispering as though the rest of the world had simply dropped away. She had found it difficult to look away at first, enthralled and taken off guard by the sheer innocence of the scene. Then, she had averted her eyes, and continued walking. The remaining teachers all had a grim, grey line connecting them; this one was fraying, and Hermione knew it was the terrible guilt that they had outlived many of their students. The sight of Colin Creevy's mangled body, looking somehow tinier in death than he did in life, pervaded her mind more often than she'd like to admit. It hit her when she least expected it, when she was reading a book or copying down notes. Sometimes, Hermione felt like she was the only one in the school, the only one in the entire world, with no string at all.

Now she knew that wasn't true, because Draco Malfoy had no strings too.

She had been surprised to see him in Hogwarts, despite the whispers that had leaked from compartment to compartment on the train. When she arrived, her heart had constricted and the thought of seeing the Great Hall, cleansed of the blood and bodies that had littered it when she'd last stood there, meant Hermione decidedly avoided it, opting to wander around the castle instead. As it had turned out, her feet took her to her one solace, untouched by the wrath of the world: the library. She strolled through the aisles, fingers brushing the spines of books she had committed to memory, and stopped.

The gleam of his white hair, no longer slicked back but loose and ruffled and falling into his eyes, caught her attention first. It was always what people noticed about him, perhaps because it was so traditionally _Malfoy_. Hermione always thought it was superficial to focus on his alabaster hair, and though she could admit his eyes had every so often left her breathless (for more unsavoury reasons than just because they were pretty), it was the wry smile that she looked for. It was rare, and she was never the cause of it though she couldn't say it bothered her. She merely found it bizarre. It struck her when any semblance of human emotion was wrung from him, and she both longed for it and detested it because it made it simultaneously harder and easier to hate him.

And she did hate him. Hermione remembered the way his jaw had crunched under her knuckles, the sweeping fury of her fist, along with the burning feeling of abhorrence that writhed in her gut in Third Year. She thought it was a waste, how such beauty and intellect was wasted on the mindlessness racism and superiority he was fed as a child.

But she felt that hatred crumble when she saw him on September 1st for the first time since the Battle of Hogwarts because Draco Malfoy was not the same scathing, smirking boy she recalled him to be.

Where the air ignited around Harry and Ron, Hermione was always sure it dropped a few degrees when Draco Malfoy entered a room. It wasn't so much that he was a cold person, more his countenance never held a flicker of warmth, and the inherited, marble like features of his face ensured he looked more like a statue, than a living human being. His lithe chest barely moved when he breathed, and his eyes would regard everything with an air of boredom and callous cruelty. He was impossibly tall, taller than even Ron was, with pale skin, never fused with blush, and blond hair that remained the only thing to be moved by outside influences when the wind threaded through it. But what really struck people were his eyes: two light and icy glaciers, more blue than the summer skies, enough to make even the sun freeze over. What really struck Hermione, however, was the complexity beneath the granite, the rush of blood beneath the paleness of his skin. She had seen him broken last night, and in some sick, twisted way, she wanted to see more. It made her feel less alone in her brokenness.

 _"You aren't to me."_

She didn't know what had made her say it. Hermione knew she was a pennant for wounded puppies and societal injustices, and though Draco Malfoy did not instantly appear to be either of those things, she did not regret the words. He needed to hear them, and truth be told, the Malfoy heir had ceased to be Lucius Malfoy's Pureblood son the moment his aunt had dragged Hermione by the hair and demanded Draco confirm her identity and he'd grappled for a lie to save them a few precious seconds. The purple crescents under his eyes and the way his lips had tightened and pursed so he wouldn't cry out or vomit when the word 'Mudblood' was being carved into her flesh were proof enough that this boy was not the same one she had known before the war.

She didn't know who he was.

One of the few liberties of being an Eighth Year was the separate room that had been created at the top of the Gryffindor Girls dormitories, giving her both the House camaraderie that she loved and the solidarity she craved. Hermione collected her uniform from where it was piled neatly on her drawers. It was only when she caught sight of herself in the mirror, sighing at the bird's nest her good night of sleep had left her with, that her eyes strayed to the clock on the wall and she swore.

She'd overslept.

And fuck, she had overslept massively.

She had missed all of her morning lessons. Hermione rushed to get dressed, and pack her bag for the afternoon, neglecting to drag a brush through her hair because really, what was the point? She shouldered her bag and shoved her curls into a bun to keep it out of her face and to prevent any birds from nesting in it should she have to venture outside.

Luckily, she would be in time for lunch, and her stomach ached for food. She skipped a glance in the mirror and left the room, flying down the stairs and out of the Portrait Hole. Appearances hardly mattered when you'd fought in a war and spent eleven months on the run.

Despite being back all of two weeks, Hermione still felt her feet move a little bit quicker as she walked past the double doors entrancing the Great Hall, and her breath came out in short pants at the din of chatter and clatter that escaped through the tiny slit in the wood. She'd taken to eating her meals in the kitchens, though it was much quieter down there with Dobby gone. That was not to say there had been a shortage of House Elves. Rather, quite the opposite as McGonagall had offered a job to all of the elves who had been in servitude to Death Eaters. Hermione still opposed the outdated serfdom but accepted that repaying the elves in gratitude and manners (which they had likely never experienced before if Lucius Malfoy's treatment of Dobby was anything to go by) was still a success, no matter how small.

Winky greeted her as soon as she'd stepped foot in the kitchen, and the other House Elves stopped what they were doing to eagerly offer their services. They seemed to miss the act of personally waiting on an individual and it made Hermione uncomfortably pleased to know that she was easing their transition, ensuring no other elves descended into drink as Winky had done.

"Missus Hermione!" Winky chirped, taking her hand and leading her over to the small table they always kept set for her. There was already a cup of tea there. "Always on time, Miss. What can I get for Miss today?"

"Just the usual, please Winky," replied Hermione, taking her seat and fixing the elf with a tired but grateful smile. "Thank you."

"Of course, Miss! Winky will get you it right away!"

The kitchens never failed to amaze her. They were yellow and warm, soaked in the transient light that drifted from tiny windows by the ceiling. The walls were lopsided golden bricks, and tall, maybe twice or three times the size of Hermione herself. Set deep into them were crates of food and barrels of beverages, and there were little sprigs of herbs and vegetables that grew from the cracks in abundance. There were little doors, the size of a House Elf, that led off to other smaller kitchens and the room under the Great Hall where the tables would appear for the food to be placed. It was homely down here, and always smelt of fresh bread and ginger. She would have to ask if they had any more jasmine.

She noticed the mug of tea in front of her was half full, and her hand hesitantly went to touch the ceramic. It was still warm.

"There you are."

A voice startled her, and Hermione jumped to find Ginny staring at her. The redhead sat on the chair opposite and Winky squealed as she brought Hermione's soup over for her, wiping her hands on her apron with the excitement of having another mouth to feed.

"Here is Miss Hermione's soup! And Miss! What can Winky get you?"

Ginny smiled at the elf. "The same, please. If you have any leftover."

Winky straightened up. "Yes, Miss! Always food here, Miss! And if not, we's make more!"

Ginny's eyes followed her right until she disappeared into one of the smaller rooms, before she turned back to Hermione.

"You're an awfully difficult person to find," she told her, amused.

Hermione took a sip of her soup. "That's often the case when the person in question does not wish to be found."

Ginny nodded, and she started to play with a sprig of rosemary that curled itself near her head. She said quietly, "Neville said you weren't in Herbology this morning. And when I asked Hannah, she told me you weren't in Potions either."

"I overslept."

"You overslept?" repeated Ginny, eyes narrowing slightly. Hermione nodded, silencing herself with another spoonful of soup. "Hermione, I say this because I love you, but you look like you haven't slept in weeks."

 _Try months_ , she wanted to say, but thought it wiser to keep her mouth shut.

Her friend's face was pale with worry, and she dropped the herb she was twirling around her finger to hold Hermione's free hand. "Is it-? Are you having nightmares?" asked Ginny tentatively. "Because if you are, there are potions for it. I know Madam Pomfrey has one that works a treat-"

"I've tried, Ginny," Hermione admitted, eyes lowered to the steam billowing from her bowl, voice even lower. "They don't work for me. I've tried them all."

Ginny swallowed. "There has to be something-"

"Soup for Missus as well!" Winky appeared suddenly and Ginny, in her surprise, removed her hand from Hermione's to retrieve the bowl.

"Thank you, Winky. You're a star!"

The elf beamed then curtsied and left.

"There's nothing. I've tried everything," finished Hermione.

Ginny sealed her lips together so they formed a line. There was a slight frown between her eyebrows. "Well, maybe there's nothing to help you sleep, but you can stop locking yourself away from us. We're here for you, Mione. Luna, Neville and I. Even Hannah is worried-"

"Ginny, listen. Honestly, I'm _fine_ -"

"Is it because Harry and Ron aren't here?"

"I-" Hermione cut off. Of course she missed them. When they weren't by her side or nearby, she felt like she was missing a finger or a hand. They were an integral part to her, like any of her limbs, like the hairs on her head or her heart or her lungs. "No. I mean, it certainly doesn't make things easier… but we needed our own way to grieve. We needed to move on with life."

Ginny's eyes were sharp when Hermione finally met them. She was always sharp, straight to the point and keen to make things as simple as possible. Hermione couldn't decide whether simplicity was boring or cheating.

"And how's that working for you?"

Hermione closed her mouth, holding the eye contact. She replied easily, "I think I'm getting back into the swing of things with my studies-"

Ginny laughed. "There are more things to life than studying, Hermione. How's everything else?"

She finally looked away, licking her lips which had suddenly become very dry and helped herself to more of her soup. She wasn't feeling very hungry anymore.

"Fine," Hermione shrugged. The soup tasted like ash on her tongue. "Just fine."

She wondered if you could use a word so wrongly that it would change its definition to suit your purpose. Surely, if you used it out of context enough. In that case, Hermione wasn't fine at all. And she could not understand for the life in her why she insisted on lying to her best friend's face when she'd cracked in front of Draco Malfoy. Perhaps it was because he knew exactly what it was like to be dragged right through the centre of hell and have no choice but to keep going. She often wondered if she'd ever get out. The image of the bright blue band of light trapped around Malfoy's pale ankle flashed to the forefront of her mind's eye, and she wondered if he would ever get out too, or if they'd both be trapped in hell together.


	3. Darkness

**Chapter Three**

He played with the coin. Staring absently at the stone wall across the room, he slipped the galleon between his fingers, relishing in the cold trail it made across his skin. His other arm was sprawled along the top of the bottle green, leather settee, his one leg folded across the other. If it had been any other time, he would have looked like a king lounging atop his throne; the hair on his head, the colour of sterile sunlight, was more telling than any crown with any number of jewels.

Draco frowned.

"You're always moping," a voice said from above him. Draco threw the coin high in the air, eyes following it, and Blaise Zabini caught it.

He was a tall and slim boy, with dark skin and dark eyes and lips that smiled like he perpetually knew something you didn't and he held the information indefinitely against you. There was something warm about him though when he looked at you, black eyes sparkling, and Draco was more grateful than he let on that it was Blaise and not Crabbe and Goyle that kept him company nowadays.

"I don't mope," Draco drawled in protest.

Blaise scoffed, tossing him back his galleon and pushing his arm aside so he could sit down. Draco grudgingly let him. He noticed a small group of Third Years skirt past them, gaze glued to their toes, casting a twitching glance at the pair of them when a moment of foolish bravado washed through their small bodies then looking away just as quickly. Draco turned to Blaise. The other Slytherin was the only person in Hogwarts, the only person in the entire world, not including his mother, that could look him in the eye. Everybody else preferred to pretend that he didn't exist, that he had died with the rest of the students, or been locked up with the rest of the Death Eaters.

It seemed everybody wanted something and nothing from him. His father had wanted him to take the mark, to follow in his footsteps and purge the Wizarding World of the inferior races. His mother wanted him to be safe. His aunt wanted him to kill. His friends wanted him to be strong and his enemies wanted him to be weak. His teachers wanted him to pull up his socks and get back on track.

Blaise just wanted him to stop moping.

"You do," he said smoothly, "and you did before."

Draco shot him a look, which Blaise caught and disregarded instantly.

"If I wanted to be talked at and insulted, I would have gone to Azkaban with my father," he told him, and he heard the way his voice dropped and the shame crept in but ignored it.

Blaise ignored it too.

"There's still time for that, don't worry," he replied, stretching his arms along the back of the sofa. He'd rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and Draco's eyes lingered on the exposed, clean skin there, feeling his own forearm burn. "Maybe you'll get the best of both worlds."

Draco took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment and squeezing the cold coin so all of the sharp edges dug into the palm of his hand. If it had been anyone else who'd said that to him, he'd have hexed them so hard it would have propelled him straight into the cell beside his father's. Luckily, it was Blaise, and unluckily, there was a semblance of truth behind his words.

"How is all of that going, anyway?" asked Blaise, in a lower voice. His jaw was clenched and Draco could see the worry lurking in the frown nestling between his friend's eyebrows. "Have there been any new developments?"

"No."

Draco shifted subconsciously, putting both of his feet flat on the floor, and dragging his ankle against the chair leg. He added, almost as an afterthought, "I have the date of my trial."

Blaise shot up in his seat. He stared at him as though he had grown a second head, and Draco mustered up all the strength in his body to meet his gaze dead-on.

"That's a pretty crucial, fucking development, Draco," his friend hissed. "Why didn't you tell me-?"

"Oh, please, Blaise," Draco rolled his eyes. "You're not my mother."

"I might as well be!" fumed Blaise, and he moved closer, eyes wide and persistent. He seemed to realise he was making a scene, however, when a few other students glanced over, and licked his lips, rolling his shoulders back and lowering his voice to a careful murmur. "You're ruining yourself, Draco. You don't eat, you're barely keeping up in class and don't think I haven't noticed you sneaking off every night to Merlin knows where!"

 _Yes_ , Draco thought. _Merlin, and a certain know-it-all Gryffindor._

It had been a… surprise last night, when Hermione Granger, draped in a sickly crimson blanket, appeared from the shadows and sat down beside him. It had been even more surprising when she had started a civil conversation with him as though they were old friends. He scratched at his neck, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.

There had been something in her wide, innocent eyes when she had asked him if he was okay, something he hadn't thought he would ever see again. He didn't truly believe he deserved the concern that she had shown him, nor the slow trickle of honesty that had dribbled from her lips-

"Draco? Are you even fucking listening to me?"

"No," he replied, getting to his feet and striding away, down the stairs to the boys dormitory, locking himself in his room and making sure he slammed the door hard enough so Blaise could hear it in the Common Room. He wouldn't follow him. He wouldn't stoop to such a low and desperate level. He also wouldn't have a chance of guessing Draco's password.

Draco paced, hands raking through his hair, scraping it back from his face. There was a thin line of sweat tracing his forehead and he rubbed at it, willing it to dry. His heart was racing in his chest and the emerald walls that had always been so comforting to him felt confining and crushing. His dormitory, being right at the very bottom of the dungeons, wasn't quite as dark and wet as one might expect it to be. The stone walls were smooth, and there were two pillars towering at the foot of his four-poster bed, serpent like marble twined round them both. Emerald bedding and chairs matched the sweeping drapes that hung from the ceiling, and Draco only stopped his pacing when a Grindylow swam past his window. Another reason he'd always loved being in Slytherin was the lake. In his room, stretching from ceiling to floor, in place of a wall, was a large piece of glass, framing the floor of the Black Lake and casting his room in a bluish-green glow.

Draco moved closer to it. He couldn't see very far, as the water was murky and descended into greyness, but he could see the way the weeds waved in the current and occasionally, a fish or Kappa or even a Merperson would swim by, taunting him with their freedom.

 _Damn this school!_

His preliminary trial had decreed that, pending sentence, it would be best for him to return to Hogwarts. Whether it was truly for his 'safety,' or for the safety of the rest of the world, Draco doubted he would ever find out. It seemed more likely that in waiting to lock him up in one place for good, they decided it was best for everyone if he was locked up in another for the time being.

The school that had always been his home was now his prison. He felt the walls closing in on him with every step he took, inching closer and closer. It was only a matter of time before they suffocated him completely, squeezed the life from his weak body and spilled the blood that had always been important to him all over the floor.

Draco screwed his eyes shut, and punched the glass, resting his forehead on the place his fist had made warm. His breath escaped him in a shaking rush of air.

This wasn't the life he had chosen. It wasn't the one he deserved, and trust him, he deserved a lot of bad for the shitty things he'd done. But _not this._

He hadn't wanted to take the mark. Draco remembered the night it had happened so vividly he could still smell the burning of his flesh. The sight of his body disgusted him. He had always been proud of it, of the wiry muscles that came from training on the Quidditch pitch every day, and the untouched whiteness of his skin. Now, he could barely stand to glance at it in the mirror. His torso had been marked with so many scars and bruises that had yet to heal because he refused to let his mother put balm on them. His right arm had been broken twice during the war and he had gritted his teeth and let it heal the Muggle way because he knew he deserved the pain of it. It still wasn't right, and ached every now and then if he put too much pressure on his elbow. There was a snake-like constriction around his waist, where Nagini had coiled about him in his Sixth Year when the Dark Lord feared he wasn't taking his mission seriously enough. Needless to say, it made him work harder than before on fixing the cabinet and he had it done within the month.

Sometimes, Draco awoke to the same heaviness on his chest, wrapping around his body, squeezing him firmly-

He let out an anguished whimper, banging his head against the glass and clenching his eyes shut tighter. It was like he was staring into a void, and only the darkness heard the way the desperation caught in his throat.

 _"Not to me."_

The darkness, and Hermione Granger. But she noticed everything.

 **oOo**

He didn't know what made him do it, what in Merlin's name had him waking up at an atrociously early hour, and what part of his generally rational brain thought that going for a walk in the middle of the night, knowing full well that Ganger could be walking in the opposite direction, was a better idea than staring at the lake bed like he usually did for hours until he passed out from exhaustion.

Even so, Draco found himself walking along the corridor, the cold stone digging into his feet, his heart feeling traitorously light in the heaviness of his chest. He stopped when he got to the same place he'd been sitting in yesterday, casting a sweeping glance up and the down the hall before he sighed and dropped to the floor.

He didn't know for how long he sat there, knees pulled up to his chest, eyes closed, only that he was almost drifting off when he heard her.

She had somehow rounded the corner in silence, though he heard her soft footsteps nevertheless. Draco pretended he wasn't relieved that she was here. Granger crept closer to him, sitting beside him. There was the same amount of space between them as there had been the night before, but the distance felt less somehow.

"The jasmine tea worked," she told him quietly, shifting the blanket so that her hands had something to do and her eyes had somewhere to look. "I suppose I should thank you for that."

He didn't really acknowledge her presence, nor what she'd said at all for a solid few minutes. Then, Draco said, "Then why are you here?"

Granger frowned. "Excuse me?"

Draco had to hold back a growl, but he couldn't stop the frustrated exhalation of air from leaving his nose. He repeated impatiently, "If it helps you sleep, why aren't you sleeping?"

"The same reason you came back to this exact spot despite it having been compromised."

He knew she was taking a stab in the dark, and though the words didn't find their mark, they were a blow nevertheless. Instead of showing it and giving her the satisfaction, he let out a harsh laugh. "Don't flatter yourself, Granger. You've hardly compromised this place for me."

She huffed in annoyance and he almost laughed for real. Draco leaned his head back against the wall, craning his head so far back it was parallel with the ceiling and closing his eyes. She didn't speak for a while and he expected her to have silently slipped away, but when he heard a rustle of movement and he looked down, Draco found her sitting next to him still. He frowned, though schooled his features into nonchalance quickly after.

"Why this spot in particular?" asked Granger. He nearly didn't hear her, and had to stop himself before he leaned closer just to catch what she was saying. She was so damn quiet, like some sort of startled mouse, and it irked him because he knew she could scream and yell and moan for bloody Morgana herself.

"Speak up, will you Granger," he retorted senselessly. "No one is awake to hear you make a racket."

Draco felt the heat on his neck when she glowered at him, and he hated the small smirk that curled his lips. It was the first bit of warmth he'd felt in years.

"Why-" she began in a much louder voice, though dropped the volume when the word echoed down the corridor, firing back at the pair of them as to why they were sitting there, entertaining one another at all.

 _Why indeed_ , Draco questioned drolly.

"-here?" she finished, almost lamely. "Why here?"

He opened his eyes at that point, tilting his chin down and let his gaze peruse the hallway with the same curiosity he felt in the witch beside him. "I don't know," he answered, and the honesty with which he replied surprised them both. "I just started walking and stopped at the first place I didn't remember. Nothing has happened along this corridor. Not to me anyway."

"Nor me," Granger offered quietly.

They sat in silence for a few moments, and the serenity was fractured by the steady, alternating sounds of their collective breathing.

"This castle is haunted for me now."

He didn't know why she had told him that, and he doubted she did either. All he knew was it made his gut coil with the same uncertainty and discomfort he had felt yesterday when she'd told him he wasn't his father's son to her.

"Is that why you eat in the kitchens?" he asked.

Granger looked at him in surprise and Draco scoffed and said, "I don't follow you."

She remained unconvinced, though he hardly had the patience nor energy to appease her.

Luckily, it was Granger who changed the subject. "Where did you learn about the jasmine?"

His eyes dropped to his feet, but the blue light around his ankle made him cringe so he looked away from her, down the corridor. "My mother used to make it for me when I was ill. It was the only housework she ever did."

Granger was quiet again. Their conversations were predominantly silences, interrupted only by tentative questions and moments of bitter honesty that had them both thankful nobody else was listening. She said, "She loves you a lot, doesn't she? Your mother."

Draco shifted and he said, only to avoid saying anything else, "Every mother loves their child, Granger."

She hummed but didn't comment. Draco swallowed, itching to ask something that had been nagging at him since her arrival. He gritted his teeth to try and keep it in but the question escaped him anyway, curiosity trumping whatever morsel of dignity he had left. Realistically, he knew he'd sacrificed that when he climbed out of bed and wandered the slumbering corridors, hoping their paths would cross once more.

"What did you mean by the same reason I was here?"

Granger paused. There was a scuffle between her brain and her tongue and he didn't think he'd ever see her hesitate an answer, but it took her a moment to say, "I thought that much was obvious. It's different with you. I don't feel like I have to hide how terribly not-fine I am."

Draco couldn't stop himself from looking at her, though he knew the eye contact was probably a bad idea. There was something that possessed him to lie to her, to curl his lip like he used to and _lie_.

"I'm fine," he snarled.

She looked at him with that all-knowing look that used to drive him crazy and he felt his resolve crack and crumble in his gut, wondering furiously why he thought any of this was a good idea.

"Draco," she murmured sadly, and he couldn't stand the pity in her voice.

"Don't fucking look at me like that, Granger. And stop calling me Draco," he hissed. "We're not friends."

A muscle twitched in Granger's jaw. "No," she conceded and he felt a twinge of guilt for the way her voice trembled. "But I thought maybe we could be decent human beings in a world where they seem scarce."

Draco pursed his lips together and stared adamantly ahead. Despite the fact that the air now crackled between them, neither one of them seemed willing to move, though Draco longed to get up and stalk back to his dormitory and never have to face the pressing reality of Hermione Granger. His legs refused to move, however, and he found himself frozen to the spot, incapacitated by the uncertainty she seemed to strike in him. His eyes ventured everywhere but _her,_ and he stopped when he noticed the blue light peeking out from his pyjama bottoms.

"I'm not fine," he said reluctantly, frowning at the band around his ankle. "I'm fucking terrified, Granger."

She looked at him, and her eyes, concerned and brimming with unbridled feeling, scorched his bare skin. He rubbed at his neck and cheek, trying to protect himself. Draco closed his eyes, breath rushing shakily from his lips.

"I feel like I'm losing my mind."

"It's okay to be lost every now and then, Malfoy," whispered Granger, leaning closer so that he had no choice but to look at her. She was insistent and unbearably truthful and it both reassured and _killed_ him. He found he missed the sound of his name on her lips, "just so long as you let yourself be found when the time comes."

Not another word was spoken between them that night, but they both remained there for maybe twenty minutes more, basking in the unusual quietness one brought to the other and wondering how it was only when they were sitting next to one another that their minds would finally cease their chatter. And then they left. Draco left first this time, but he heard Hermione's voice echo in his head until the sunlight touched the bottom of the lake and his room was set alight with yellow.


	4. The Abyss and Granger

**Chapter Four- The Abyss and Granger**

He was in a bad mood. A really fucking sour mood.

It must have radiated from him, rolling like waves from the snarl of his lips and the hood of his eyes, because everyone he passed on his way to breakfast took one look at him and moved quickly out of his way. They ducked their heads, though their submission was counteracted by the trail of whispers their brashness allowed. Draco angled a glare at a particularly bold Gryffindor who didn't even bother to lower her voice when she used 'Malfoy' and 'Death Eater' in the same sentence.

It wasn't like she was wrong, but he didn't need the fucking reminder.

He didn't have his bag because lessons hardly mattered now. Blaise would slip him a quill and some paper when the professor wasn't looking, and Draco would take notes only after five minutes of stewing furiously and a laborious sigh because his head was starting to burn due to the heat of his friend's glare. Although he had always been a good student (never as good as Granger, he thought bitterly), he could only question what the point was. What was the point in trying to haul himself back on track when in less than four months it could be too late?

Blaise hadn't brought up his trial again. Draco was secretly relieved at his friend's tact, but part of him wished that Blaise would care less. He ostracised himself when he was seen with him, and Draco was well aware that convivial conversation died when he entered a room. He'd also noticed that Blaise would fill both his own and Draco's plate with food to make sure he was eating. It was part of the reason Draco had taken to having some of his meals in the kitchen.

He didn't want Blaise getting attached. Not if he wasn't going to be here for much longer.

But he also knew Granger ate in the kitchens too, and right now, Blaise was the lesser of the two annoyances.

He wondered what her reasons were.

The Great Hall was alive with chatter. The owls had just swooped in and they pecked at the fingers of their recipients, vying for food or payment. Draco found himself drawn to the open window that allowed them access. He wished it was that simple to just take off, into the September skies and never have to stop or look back, to just disappear into the clouds. The din of morning excitement withered away and he was painfully aware of the silence, and the hundreds of eyes that turned to stare before relocating rapidly.

Draco found it worsened his mood considerably.

He skulked over to the Slytherin table, and when Blaise moved along the bench to let him sit down, he obliged, not having the effort or energy to fight him this morning. His heart dropped with his body as he slipped in beside Blaise, shoulders deflating, head pounding. He didn't even argue when Blaise began putting bacon and toast on his plate.

"Do you like black pudding?" Blaise asked nonchalantly.

Draco didn't reply. His eyes stung because he'd hardly slept, and he felt like the world was falling away at his feet.

"I'm going to take that as a no," said Blaise. "You're having some beans though. They're good for your heart."

"I'm going to Madam Pomfrey after Transfiguration," muttered Draco, and Blaise looked at him in surprise. "I haven't been sleeping."

Momentarily struck by this change in his friend, Blaise was silent before he said, "Okay. Good. That's good. She can give you a potion for it."

"Yeah."

He pretended he was doing it for himself, and he allowed Blaise to feel as though he was trying to get back on track. In reality, it was because he didn't think he could face Hermione Granger.

Almost absently, his gaze trailed the table on the far side of the hall, looking for her bushy bird's nest, seeking out her tired eyes. Draco didn't know what it was, what kept drawing him back to her. He had once longed to see her broken, to see her grappling and disorientated because she was always the one holding everything and everyone else together.

He remembered their second year, seeing her sprawled and seized up on the hospital bed. Draco had to admit he'd been curious. She'd been a tiny thing, filled to bursting with self-righteousness and the silly ignorance she used to delude herself with about a dark world she was a stranger to. He heard the whispers- _Potter's Mudblood has been petrified_. That was when he knew it wasn't Potter. He'd doubted it highly anyway because a Gryffindor (especially one as bloody stupid and brash as _Potter_ ) could never be Slytherin's heir, but Draco wanted to see what Granger looked like when she was inches away from death.

As it turned out, she looked no different. Apart from the pallid waxiness of her face, the unseeing gaze of her wide eyes and the fact that her mouth was shut and silent for once, he thought she looked the same. It unnerved him more, though he'd never admit it. She wasn't supposed to be broken. She was meant to be spitting and fighting until the end.

This wasn't the end for Granger. He didn't know how he knew it, but Draco hadn't felt so sure of anything in his entire life.

That was why he needed to sleep. If he didn't sleep, his mind would wander and for some bizarre and fucking annoying reason, it would always wander back to her. He didn't like to see her broken. It made him ponder on how absolutely beyond fixing he was in comparison.

"I'm going to go to class," he murmured, feeling his skin crawl like he was on fire, pushing the bench back so he could escape. It was so hot.

Blaise frowned at him. "You haven't touched your bacon."

"I'm not hungry."

"Draco-"

He sped up so he wouldn't have to face a confrontation with his friend. As soon as he'd burst through the doors, and the stifling air relinquished its clutches on him, he let out a shaky breath.

Walls felt confining nowadays. If he sat in the same place for too long, they would start to close in on him, squeezing his ribs, sucking the light from the world. When the wind picked up and snaked around his neck, Draco swore he felt the Dementors reach out for him-

He stopped. Running his hands over his face and through his hair to try to get a grip, he shook himself and turned on his heel. He might as well actually go to class. There was nowhere else in the world he needed to be. Not now. Not ever.

He didn't get very far however.

"Death Eater!" Draco felt the name stab into him, but he continued walking. "Merlin, it's a wonder they ever let war criminals back into the school. You'd think they'd send them straight to Azkaban-"

The heat exploded within him, writhing fury, coiling frustration, and he whirled around. The group were maybe fifth years, with various coloured ties but he saw red.

"Are you talking to me?" Draco gritted out.

The tallest, a smug boy with sickening grin and squinting eyes, who Draco associated with the name Hamelin for some reason, raised his eyebrows. "Well, you're the only Death Eater here, aren't you?"

Draco could feel the tension in the air. He could feel the brewing storm. After living his life for that, with no breaks of sunshine for so long, he knew the moment a situation changed. It was when his hairs stood on end in anticipation and every bone in his body braced itself for impact.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He wouldn't rise to it.

"What do you want?" he asked, fixing them with a bored glance.

The Ravenclaw, Hamelin, pushed himself off the wall and stalked towards him. Draco didn't move as he came nose to nose with him. He could feel the heat of the other boy's breath, see every flicker beneath his skin. There was a twitch in his jaw, an unpredictability in his eyes; he was fuming, bubbling over with something poisonous and livid. Draco recognised it. He didn't square up, just watched him through hooded eyes.

"I want you to pay," the boy said in a low voice. He was trembling, something Draco was sure his friends couldn't see.

He knew he was playing with fire, but he asked in a cold voice, "For what?"

" _My brother_ ," Hamelin spat. A vein pulsed in his head.

Draco's eyes darted over his shoulder. They had accumulated a small crowd. He swallowed. They stood with wide eyes, held breaths, debilitated with the expectation of what would happen next. He knew what they were waiting for.

He'd give it them. He'd be the villain they so desperately wanted him to be.

"And what did I do to your brother?" he drawled.

Hamelin's entire face changed. It twisted into agony. "They _killed_ him!" he stressed, almost crying out.

"You're going to have to be more specific," said Draco, flicking his eyes away.

His dark eyes were red and wet, and he drew in a shuddering breath, surveying Draco as though he wanted to kill him. " _Your lot._ Your friends, your father, your sick, fucking leader. I don't know. You could've done it yourself, Malfoy."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Draco quickly said. He looked Hamelin dead in the eye. "You all would. Would it make it easier if I told you I did it?"

That was all he needed to hear. Hamelin reared back and punched him, fist colliding with his cheekbone and all Draco could hear was the crunch of the bones in his face, splintering awfully in his ear. He stumbled backwards. Vaguely, he could hear the gasps of the crowd and even some cheers, but they were soon drowned out by the rush of blood to his head.

Hamelin punched him again as soon as he'd regained balance, and he felt the cold, hard impact of the floor. The world spun a little. It wasn't much, compared to what he'd been through, but he still felt weak.

"Why aren't you fighting back, Malfoy?" Hamelin asked, almost deploringly, wiping at his face with the sleeve of his robe. When Draco didn't stir, he kicked him in the ribs. "Why won't you fight? Fight for yourself, you piece of shit!"

Draco felt each kick but he was numb to it. He rolled over and took it, thinking he deserved so much worse. His ribs felt to fracture, jarring in his body and ripping into his heart and lungs. Each breath was painful, and when he coughed, a splatter of blood stained the floor.

Hamelin knelt down beside him. He was crying, taking huge raking breaths. Drawing his face close, he said, desperate and devastated beyond description, "This is for my brother. It's for everyone who you've hurt. Everything you touch _breaks_."

Draco didn't even react. Hamelin inhaled sharply, recoiling, and he grabbed Draco's arm, ripping his sleeve from his skin. There was a hiss of fear, a ripple of disgust, and Draco felt his Dark Mark burn. He finally acted. He rolled away slightly, pulling his arm back and punching the other boy hard in the nose. He knew it was hard because his knuckles stung and it was enough to take his mind off the pain that was imploding everywhere else.

Hamelin fell backwards, skidding away from the force of the hit. Draco knew he'd just made it worse, and he relaxed into the stone floor, welcoming the cold that seeped into his skin.

Nobody tried to stop Hamelin, not as he scrambled furiously to his feet, storming back over and bringing his foot down squarely on Draco's face. He could feel the blood explode from his nose, and his tooth cut into his lip. He thought he saw stars, and maybe his mother's face, and why the fuck could he hear Granger's voice?

He thought it might be his conscience berating him, calling him a coward and an idiot and everything between and beyond, but then he felt hands on him, warm ones, and the world resumed. Everything came back tenfold, and Draco felt like a gasping infant, birthed from turmoil and fury, squinting in the painful brightness of a world that was unfamiliar to him.

"-stupid, _stupid_ boys!" a voice was saying. It sounded stressed, upset, frantic.

"He deserves it, Granger. You know he does-"

 _"This isn't war!"_

Granger's voice echoed loudly and despairingly along the corridor. It came from somewhere very close to him, and Draco suspected it was her warm hands that were sending heat through his body. He realised she was shielding his forearm from view. He tried to move away from her, rolling onto his stomach in an attempt to crawl, but she held him fast and he had no effort to try again.

"I didn't put everything on the line in a war for you to perpetuate violence and anger," she said, distress making her voice tremble and high. "Hamelin, your brother wouldn't have wanted this-"

"Don't you dare tell me what he would've wanted, Granger," countered Hamelin defiantly. "Look at his mark, Granger! Why are you defending him? His type tried to kill you. They killed Linus-"

"You're just grieving!" she shouted at him. The silence bounced back, cracking her voice. "We're all grieving but that doesn't mean we turn on each other. We won because we prioritise love and friendship, not hatred."

Draco tilted his head slightly so he could watch her through his hair. She was crying silently, chest heaving. "We're just children. We shouldn't be fighting like this. We shouldn't have to grieve. Now, get to class, all of you. Go!"

"And 100 points from Ravenclaw," added a cool voice. Draco glanced behind Granger and saw the Weasley girl. She stood tall, arms folded across her chest, Head Girl badge glinting from her robe. With even more aloofness, she said, "And a further 50 from everybody watching."

Draco lowered his eyes to the floor. He wanted to get away from here. He wanted the ground to swallow him whole. He wanted to die-

There was a scuffle of hesitation, before the crowd dispersed, too chastised and ashamed to properly argue over such a heavy penalty. The group of Hamelin's friends grabbed his arm to steer him to their lesson.

"You belong in Azkaban, Malfoy," Hamelin said finally, resisting his friends for only a moment before they dragged him away. There was no bite in his voice, just dejection, and Draco tried to kick out his legs to see if he still had control of them, feeling each one of their footsteps pound within his skull. He rolled onto his back and gazed up at the high ceilings, and the beams swung, and the sunlight seemed to do pirouettes and twirls above his head.

Every bone in his body _hurt._ He ached as though he was hollow and there was nothing left.

Now, it was just him, and the pain, and Granger and Weasley.

"Hermione-" Weasley began, reaching for her friend.

Granger swallowed, and there was a hardness to her face which lasted just a second, before she turned her chin half towards the other girl to say, "Go to class, Ginny. I'll take him to the Hospital Wing."

"But-"

"You need your NEWT's more than I do," she reasoned.

Weasley hesitated, but then she squeezed Granger's shoulder, cast Draco less than half a glance, and left.

Granger remained sitting there for a moment, staring into space, before she turned to look at him. She realised she was still holding his arm and dropped her hands.

"It was very stupid of you to provoke him like that," she said. She sounded stronger than before, but he could hear the cracks.

Draco forced himself to sit up, slowly pushing off against the cold floor, and biting back his winces when he felt his ribs dig into his flesh. He coughed, spitting out the blood that had collected in his mouth and grimacing at the metallic taste it left.

"Did you enjoy the show?" he asked, her comment smarting a little.

Granger frowned. "I didn't see it. I was on my way to class when I saw some Third Years run past, talking about a fight. It didn't take a genius to figure out that it was probably you, since nobody else is stupid enough to start a fight-"

"Don't fucking patronise me, Granger."

"-and then I saw that I was right, and someone told me that you'd killed Hamelin's brother," she finished, as if he hadn't said anything at all. She stared at him, with pursed lips. "Did you?"

He glared at her. "Did I what?"

"Did you kill his brother?"

Draco climbed to his feet, ignoring the flash of agony that jolted through him. "No," he said. "I didn't even know he had a brother."

Granger remained kneeled on the floor. "Then why did you say you did?"

Why wouldn't she fucking shut up? He wanted to drop the subject entirely and walk away, but he knew that he'd collapse if he tried. He wouldn't be able to get anywhere without her help. Even so, his skin crawled with her interrogation. He wanted to bang his head against the stone so hard his ears would bleed and he wouldn't have to listen to her or answer her stupid questions.

"I don't know, Granger," he spat. "They wanted a villain. It's the least I can do to give them one."

She was silent. Draco wondered if she'd slipped away because he hadn't looked at her since she'd asked him. But then-

"Are you alright, Malfoy?" Granger asked him seriously. The concern leaked into the air.

He wanted to be honest with her. He didn't know why because he wasn't one to talk about his feelings, but there was a balloon swelling in his chest and he thought that if he didn't let some air out, it would pop and he would shatter or deflate, and Draco so desperately wanted to tell her. He was breaking. He was being swallowed by the abyss and she was standing above him, reaching her hand out, hearing the way life caught in his throat and locked his joints and silenced every scream and cry for help.

He was just too damn proud to take it.

"I don't need you, Granger," he snarled at her, wiping his mouth roughly against the back of his hand. The blood smeared startlingly red against the blue of his veins. He pretended he didn't notice. "You're not my keeper!"

She bristled at that. It had been so long since he'd seen her all riled up, eyes aflame, hair catching the static of the moment. She looked a bit like the old Granger.

"I know, Malfoy," she replied through gritted teeth. "I just thought you looked rather pitiful getting the shit beaten out of you and wanted to offer my help. Clearly, it wasn't wanted."

He knew he was being a dick but her words still stung. He'd provoked her to such a reaction but he wanted her to defend him more, to tell him in that bossy voice of hers that left no room for debate that he had to fight for himself because nobody else was going to do it.

Instead, he ducked his head and muttered, "It wasn't needed."

Granger looked at him. Then, she let out a surprising laugh and said derisively, "Of course it wasn't. Well, Malfoy, when you decide to pull your head out of your arse, I'll be waiting. But until then, I'm going to class."

She stood up and turned her back on him. She had a gift. Draco was sure of it. It was like every single word that came out of her mouth was targeted to rub him up the wrong way, to nestle beneath his skin and prick. The flare of anger reared its ugly head inside of his gut and he stormed closer to her, backing her into the wall.

He'd never been this close to her. Not even when they sat side by side on the cold, stone floor, soaking in the same moonlight. Granger looked worse up close.

There were purple crescents under her eyes and her skin was waxy, stretched taut over her skull. Her hair hadn't been brushed in days, but Draco had always wondered if she'd even owned a hairbrush so that shouldn't have shocked him as much as it did. She had no resolve in her eyes. They were empty.

He pushed down the unease that settled deep within him at that revelation, and leaned his face closer to hers.

"You don't get to speak to me like that, Granger," he growled menacingly. "I don't know who you think you are. You have no idea _what_ I'm going through. Even if you hopped down from your little war hero pedestal, you couldn't possibly imagine how fucking wrecked I am."

She pushed herself up so she could look him directly in the eye, chin tilted high to the ceiling, voice biting but something in her eyes made him think that she was wounded. "Have I not shown you I'm wrecked too?"

"Your biggest fear is failing a fucking class, Granger!" Draco stressed, his voice bordering on a shout. It was strained, sounding like his throat was tearing to allow the words to pass. It was too raw, too unprotected. He seemed to realise this for he adopted his sneer, though it lacked the usual malice. "Forgive me for not taking your anguish very seriously."

Granger stared at him, eyes hard, jaw clenched. She said quietly, without looking away, "Yes. And my best friend had been marked for death since he was a baby. My parents are currently in Australia with no knowledge that they have a daughter and I don't know if they will ever get that knowledge back. Every time I close my eyes, I see people fighting and dying. So don't act like your problems are bigger than everyone else's, or like they make you bigger, because that's not how this works."

Draco just stared at her. He was well aware of the blood pounding to his head and the fact that Blaise would probably kill him for being late to class, especially as he'd set off early, but he couldn't find the energy to care about any of that. He swallowed thickly.

"You erased their memories," was all he said. He blinked. "I didn't know about that. I'm sorry."

Granger looked surprised she had let such a damning part of her grief slip, and she frowned at the floor. "I didn't have a choice. It was their lives or me.

"I'm not asking that you let me in, Malfoy," she continued quietly. He screwed his eyes shut to try and block her out. "I just want you to know that you're not going through this darkness alone. All differences aside, I can see when someone is grieving, and it pains me to see you driven so close to the edge-"

"Don't kid yourself, Granger. Nobody cares about me. They all know how my story ends."

Her hand was cool on the searing heat of his skin and it jolted him so he had no choice but to look at her. She shook her head and said insistently, "Nothing is written in stone, Malfoy. If you want something, truly want it, you need to fight for it. No one can save you if you're not willing to save yourself."

Draco looked into her eyes, so persistent and concerned, and he thought, maybe he believed her. Maybe there was still time left for him. Maybe, as he felt the pressure of her hands, and the shaky heat of her breath, and the morning light readied the day for salvation, he wouldn't have to do it alone.

"Granger," he began, swallowing, choking on the words. She nodded expectantly, and Draco floundered for something to give her, but he couldn't say what he wanted her to know. He was in too much pain and it was too much to ask of her and too much of himself to give away- "Can you please take me to the Hospital Wing?"


	5. Medicine

**Chapter Five- Medicine**

Hermione took him to the Hospital Wing immediately. She wrapped her arm around his waist and though he was narrow and lithe, he was heavy, leaning his weight into her, chaining them together in a slow, dragging stumble.

She could hear every hiss of pain and ragged breath in her ear, and the heat of each sigh on her cheek. Malfoy was uncommonly warm. Or maybe she was just burning. Either way, the journey across the school was one made in scorching silence.

Vaguely, she thought she could use magic to make him lighter, or even to levitate him completely. He clung to her so tightly though, his hand bunched into the material of her shirt, that she couldn't let him go. If she let him go, Hermione thought, he'd fall and never stop falling.

They burst through the Hospital Wing doors, and Madam Pomfrey immediately appeared from her office, her usual indignant self, proclaiming, "Oh honestly, Mr Collier, if that's you again-" but the chastisement died on her lips when she caught sight of Malfoy.

"Mr Malfoy," she said. Then, she snapped her mouth shut at the sorry state of him and assumed her professionalism once more. "Miss Granger, if you could get him onto a bed."

She bustled over, helping Hermione lift Malfoy onto the bed, muttering at him when he snapped at her. Then, she tapped his shoulder with her wand, and his shoes unlaced themselves from his feet, flying to the floor, and his shirt vanished, reappearing over the back of the chair. Hermione might have blushed, but her jaw slackened and she could only stare at him. The smooth expanse of Malfoy's chest was pale and lean, clinging tight to his collarbones, faintly outlining muscles he'd no doubt acquired through the hours of Quidditch Practise accumulated over the years-

And yet, all of it was marred. He had bruises of purple and blue, fresh and dark, and older ones that had already started going yellow, spread across his body, disappearing under the waistline of his trousers, curving around his waist. They were ugly and garish against the whiteness of his skin, sickeningly stark. Small cuts scattered over the swell of his ribs, which had hollowed out, almost like he'd starved himself. Running the length of his torso, from the gasping valley of his throat to his bellybutton, was a thick, red scar. It was somehow worse to look at than his Dark Mark. It glistened in the sunlight. Hermione couldn't look away.

"Broken ribs," Madam Pomfrey was murmuring. She'd summoned potions and a bowl of water and flannel to the bedside table. As if she had just remembered Hermione was still there, the nurse lifted her head and said, "Miss Granger, get a flannel and clean up his face, please."

Hermione hesitated. Even Malfoy seized up at the command. Despite her reservations, she rolled her sleeves up to her elbows and took the wet flannel, squeezing it over the basin. Gingerly, with shaking hands, she pressed it against the corner of his lip. Hamelin had punched him so hard that his lip had split in two places. Malfoy wrenched his face away from her.

He stubbornly stared at the wall. Hermione swallowed. She dabbed at his cheek, where the blood had dried, but he turned his head further away, deeper into the pillow. She took his chin and forcibly, but gently, pulled it back to face her, wiping at his mouth, ignoring the way he winced and glared at her.

"Swallow your pride," she muttered to him.

Malfoy neglected to reply, but his jaw tightened under her fingers. His blue gaze remained fixed on her. She could see the waxiness of his cheeks, the sleepless moons under his eyes. Hermione cleaned him up best she could but whilst the blood disappeared, the grey remained, permeating into every part of him, draining him of his life. Madam Pomfrey coaxed him into drinking a number of potions, running her wand over his jutting ribs to heal him. He laid on the bed at the end of it, sinking into the whiteness of the sheets. Hermione had never seen him look so fragile.

"He needs to rest," Madam Pomfrey told her, flipping her wrist and the potions went flying back to her office.

Malfoy scowled. "I'm not a child. You needn't talk about me like I'm not here."

"Overnight?" asked Hermione, folding her arms across her chest. Malfoy redirected his glare.

"His body is weak," explained the nurse. "Even if he wasn't as feeble as he is, I'd keep him at least one night, just to give his ribs chance to heal. But-" she broke off, casting a look at her disgruntled patient before beckoning Hermione away. Malfoy rolled his eyes, making a comment that was lost on them. Her voice lowered. "Miss Granger, the boy hasn't been sleeping. He's clearly not eating. He's even rejecting some of the potions. It's almost like- it's almost like his body has given up."

Hermione swallowed thickly. She stared at her feet, arms still wrapped around her waist, hugging herself. "I can stay with him, if you think that will help."

The nurse sighed, and the sound was heavy and helpless enough to draw Hermione's eyes to the older woman. The lines in her face were deep, almost pained. "Miss Granger… I'm not sure what will help. I can heal his physical wounds, but the wounds of the mind are out of my control."

She rested a hand on Hermione's shoulder. "I can't promise he'll be alright, but if you stay with him, you can at least stop him from throwing up the medicine."

Hermione grimaced, and Madam Pomfrey squeezed her arm before sending a final warning look at Malfoy. "Behave, Mr Malfoy," she said sternly. "I'll dismiss you when you're well enough but until then, you're to stay here. Understand?"

With a noncommittal noise from her patient, the matron retreated into her office. Hermione watched her, and she could hear the pounding of her own heartbeat loud in her ears. As soon as the door clicked to a close behind the nurse, Malfoy kicked back the covers, face twisting in pain. He swung his legs over the bed and got to his feet, gripping the bedframe tightly.

Hermione's head shot to look at him. Alarmed, she demanded, "Where are you going?"

Malfoy snorted. "Hell, most likely."

"That's not what I meant," she replied quickly. "I meant Madam Pomfrey just told you that you have to stay overnight! Whether that's because your injuries are bad or because she thinks you'll only end up with more in the state you're in-"

"The state I'm in?" Malfoy interrupted. He scoffed. "That's rich."

Hermione ignored him. She'd spent seven years excelling at it. But when he grabbed his wand from the bedside table and winced as he bent down to tie his shoes. His back was just as bruised as his front. She bit her lip and felt her eyes roll back into her head as she realised what she was going to do.

"I can't let you go," she said, almost cringing as she did. She flicked her wand and his laces undid themselves again.

Malfoy didn't even flinch. He raised an eyebrow and fixed her with a steady stare, the warning dark and cold in his flint eyes. He began to tie his laces again.

Hermione grimaced, and she inhaled sharply before jabbing her wand again and his laces pulled completely out, shoes darting from his feet and skidding to land against the far wall.

"What the fuck is your problem, Granger?" Malfoy growled, and Hermione noticed his hands were shaking, clutching the bedsheets tightly. He looked like he was restraining from wrapping them around her neck. He was scowling at the floor.

She swallowed.

"You are hurt, Malfoy," she said, surprised at how strong her voice sounded. She crossed her arms for emphasis. "So you will stay here and if I have to knock you out, so be it."

His knuckles had turned white, but he relaxed his grip on the blanket. Hermione watched him for a moment longer to make sure he didn't try anything else. When he didn't move, she let out the breath she'd been holding, and moved to sit on the chair by his bedside. The silence wrapped around them for the agonising space of a few minutes.

Malfoy let out a frustrated sigh, and he stood up (swaying ever so slightly), before summoning his shoes, ripping his shirt from the back of the chair and setting off towards the door. Hermione shot to her feet.

"Where are you going?" she demanded, frustration pulling her eyebrows into a frown, sending her hands to her hips. Her voice broke almost as if it was desperate but she pushed that thought out of her mind immediately.

"I didn't think I had to tell you where I go," Malfoy said, turning on his heel to look at her. He raised his eyebrows. Hermione bristled. "In fact, I didn't think it was any of your business."

She spluttered for an answer because _technically_ , he was right. She didn't care. He could saunter his way back to the Slytherin Common Room and break another two ribs for all that she did care.

He'd made it to the doors when she realised that was a lie.

 _"Draco-"_

It was a last bid attempt and they both knew it. The desperation in her voice fell frigid on the air. Malfoy froze.

He didn't turn round this time. "Don't call me that, Granger. We're not friends, I told you-"

 _"I know!"_ stressed Hermione. "I just-" Merlin, was she crying? Her eyes were hot and wet and she blinked, but that just made the tears fall faster. She dragged her arm across her face. Malfoy watched her.

"Draco," she said. She was just so tired. Her heart felt heavy and sore in her chest. She screwed her eyes shut and for some goddamn reason, all she could see in the black space there were the crescent moons under Draco Malfoy's tired eyes and the dying meadow of bruises across his skin. "I know we're not friends. I know that. But- God, please come back. You need to rest. You're not okay, Malfoy. You need to rest."

Malfoy stared at her. No flicker of anything passed across his face and his chest remained still, almost like he had stopped breathing entirely. They seemed to stare at one another for ever. Then, he swallowed, and walked slowly back to the bed. He dropped his shoes on the floor, laid his shirt over the post, and braced his weight on the mattress, but his arms were too weak and his pain too profound that a small cry broke free. Hermione didn't hesitate; she moved over and wrapped her arm around his waist, careful not to touch any of his scars even though his skin was a battlefield of them, so she could hoist him onto the bed. She gave him the blanket, and moved to sit back down on the chair.

"Your care is wasted on me, Granger," he said quietly. Hermione pretended she hadn't heard him.

"You look like you haven't slept in days," she said instead. "I'll make sure Madam Pomfrey doesn't wake you."

Malfoy had melted into his pillow. His hand slackened. It must have been one of the potions finally working its way into his bloodstream, for Hermione's face swam in and out of his view.

Numbly, he asked, "You're staying, Granger?"

Hermione swallowed. Malfoy had already closed his eyes so he missed the way her face succumbed to despair. "Yes, Malfoy," she whispered. She didn't know if he caught it. "I'm not going anywhere. I have to make sure you don't vomit up your medicine."

 **AN: They're so broken. It absolutely crucifies me to write them in such pain, but this is the reality of war. For both sides. I'm really sorry for the delay with this chapter! I've been focusing on my school work and an original book I'm writing, but I got inspiration for this abruptly, quite out of the blue, and just had to write it! I hope you all like it:)**


	6. Violet Spoons and Hermione Granger

**Chapter Six- Violet Spoons, Underground Rooms and Hermione Granger**

Hermione didn't leave his bedside.

At lunchtime, she'd considered visiting her teachers to collect the work both she and Malfoy had missed but had taken instead to counting the bricks in the opposite wall, first bottom left to bottom right, then the reverse, and then top right to top left, and the reverse. She couldn't now remember how many bricks there were but it had seemed somewhat important at the time. Eventually, when the light faded from the skies and Madam Pomfrey had been to check on her patient (who hadn't woken up once) before disappearing for a final time, Hermione allowed herself some sleep.

The chair wasn't particularly comfortable but she was small enough to make it work. Even so, her neck twisted at a funny angle and she clutched onto her knees, her tongue tasting nothing but potion in the air, and the silence of the sleeping castle. She slept fitfully, woken all of a sudden in a seizure of voiceless panic, before she realised where she was and what had happened the previous day to get her there. There was never much momentum to her nightmares- they simply frightened her into consciousness and she was left grappling for a piece of what made them so haunting.

Hermione was asleep when she heard him screaming.

She jolted awake, the chair clattering, and looked around. Malfoy was writhing on the bed, gripping the side of the mattress so tightly his arms had turned white and the blue of his veins gleamed in the moonlight. His face was screwed up in agony, and he'd bitten his lip so hard it had reopened the cuts, and the blood trickled down his chin. Hermione stumbled to his side. She felt his forehead, her other hand wrapped over his clenched fist, shaking him. He was burning.

"Malfoy," she whispered. She ragged his hand, trying to wake him. He just whimpered. "Malfoy. It's not real. Wake up! Wake up-"

He shot up. His hand twisted to grip hers, and his eyes, wide and frightened, darted around the room, lingering on the dark shapes in the shadows. Malfoy finally looked at her- she wasn't sure if he really saw her- and threw up.

Hermione jumped out of the way. He was still holding her hand so tightly she thought he might accidentally break her fingers, but she managed to rub his back with her other hand, making soothing noises, as he retched. He continued to gag even when there was nothing left and he was running on empty. When he was finished, his body slumped and he fell back against the pillows, sick drying on his chin.

Hermione pressed her lips into a line. He looked so spent, so inexhaustibly tired. She pried her hand out of his, and Malfoy didn't even open his eyes, and began to clean him up, vanishing the pool of vomit that had stained the floor and the bedsheets.

She sat gingerly on the edge of his bed when she was done. He looked dead, grey and exhausted, and Hermione wanted to hold his hand again, to remind him he was still alive.

"Bad dream?" she whispered. It seemed like a stupid question once it shattered the air. Malfoy nodded. He still had his eyes closed and he was taking big, silent breaths that racked his chest. "I get those too."

He didn't reply. Hermione wasn't sure whether he had even heard her, but she stayed sitting beside him, staring down at her shoes. The night felt quieter than before.

"I need to get out of here, Granger," Malfoy said. Hermione didn't know whether he meant the bed, the school or something bigger. He finally looked at her. "Can we go somewhere?"

His eyes were tired and bloodshot.

She nodded. "Okay. Where would you like to go?"

She checked first that Madam Pomfrey wasn't stirring, listening at her door for any sign the matron was awake. The castle was silent, however, and Hermione crept back to Malfoy, shimmying his shoes onto his feet because he was too weak to do it himself, and handing him his shirt.

He hissed when he gingerly swung himself round to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling his shirt on. She looked away as he buttoned it up.

"You need to be quiet," she told him. "It's past curfew."

Malfoy snorted. "I'm not a First Year, Granger. I've done this before."

She pursed her lips but chose to ignore him and they set off from the Hospital Wing together, into the dark and silence. Luckily, they didn't encounter another soul as they walked, neither one daring or perhaps willing to speak first. Hermione tried to be inconspicuous when she glanced at him, monitoring his face for any sign of pain, ready to catch him if he fell. He gave her the liberty of pretending not to notice. To his credit, Malfoy didn't falter once.

She didn't really know where they were going, nor who was leading, but their feet seemed to carry them down to the same place. Malfoy tickled the pear, and didn't spare her a glance as they both ducked their heads and stepped into the kitchens.

Hermione was surprised to see that, despite it being the middle of the night, the kitchen was still in full swing. Elves bustled in and out of the little doorways, and the ovens in the main room were all on, emanating a comforting heat.

"Master Draco!" Winky exclaimed. Her eyes shone and she stopped immediately, wiping her little hands on her apron. Her face grew mournful and she cried, "Master Draco isn't well! Master Draco should be sleeping. I's go get the usual for Master Draco?"

Malfoy swallowed, glancing at Hermione then back at the trembling elf. "No, thank you. Just two teas please, Winky."

It was only then that Winky noticed Hermione and she blinked and beamed. "Missus Hermione! Come right this way, Winky will get you your teas. Sit here please!"

Winky led them to the little circular table in the corner. They both sat down. Malfoy curled the sprig of rosemary that tickled his ear, and it bounced back against the wall. There was mistletoe a little further up, and vines of thyme by her shoulder. She watched Winky as she bustled away to fetch them their drinks, smile plastered on her face.

"They work through the night?" Hermione demanded as soon as the elf had disappeared. She made sure her voice, though horrified, was low enough that they couldn't hear her.

Malfoy shot her a scathing look. "They do shifts, Granger. Just like any other professional establishment. Giving them liberties not even wizards get would be an insult."

"But-!"

"Granger," he seethed. He closed his eyes. She recognised the warning, and she shut her mouth.

Neither one of them spoke again until Winky returned with their teas, beaming when they thanked her. Hermione inhaled the smell of jasmine. She took a sip, and it warmed her though, replacing the rancid aftertaste of potion. Over the rim of her teacup, she watched Malfoy play with his spoon.

Hermione placed her cup back down on the table. "Can I-?" Malfoy raised his eyes to her, but held it out for her to take. Her hands were shaking slightly.

"Watch this," she said. "You'll be impressed."

His eyebrow quirked. "Doubtful."

She scowled at him, though quickly redirected her attention. Hermione breathed on the spoon, fogging it up so she couldn't see her reflection. She glanced up at him. His dark eyes were locked on her. She tilted her chin up slightly, and placed the spoon on her nose, holding it there for a moment, before moving her hand away and holding both her arms in the air.

The victorious grin only lasted a second, for the spoon fell and clattered to the table. Hermione let out a surprised noise, looking at the piece of cutlery like it had betrayed her. Malfoy snorted, and her eyes shot to him. There was a slight curl to his lips, and the sharpness of his eyebrow softened. He caught her eye, and froze. Hermione blushed, and took a sip of her tea.

"What's your favourite colour?" she asked him. She knew the question was trivial but she couldn't think of anything else to say and she was curious to know the answer.

Malfoy blinked at her. He repeated dubiously, his lip curling to show her just how unimpressed he was by her small talk, "My favourite colour?"

"Just play along," she snapped at him and he raised a single white eyebrow but complied nonetheless.

Malfoy inhaled deeply, staring at her. "I don't know. It depends."

"On what?"

"On how fucked up I'm feeling at any one particular time," he replied lightly. Hermione's eyes were locked on his pale and pretty face.

"Well, what is it now?"

And Malfoy raised his chin, eyes unfocused and glazed over. He was silent for a few untouched moments before the smallest smile curled his lips and he said, "Violet."

Her eyebrows raised and she repeated, "Violet? I was expecting green."

"How terribly cliché of you, Granger." His smile was cool and sharp like flint. "I'm not your typical snake."

"No," she acceded. "But you are a typical Slytherin."

"And what's your favourite colour then, Granger?" he snarled. "Crimson and gold? You wouldn't want to disappoint the stereotype, would you? Merlin forbid we disrupt the harmony of good and evil at play here. Or is it white? And before you open your smart mouth, I know it's not a colour, it's a fucking shade."

Hermione stared at him. Her skin had prickled and she looked away to trace at the cracks in the wall. She said, "Violet is a very nice colour."

Malfoy blinked, and his entire body slackened, shoulders dropping, hackles lowering. A charming smile, dripping with sarcasm, stole across his face. "I suppose I'm not feeling overly fucked up at present."

"You must've had a good sleep up until that nightmare then," she commented. "You've been out like a light since this morning."

His face darkened. He hadn't touched his tea. It was probably stone-cold. Hermione swallowed, and her eyes returned to the wall because there was something that trapped her when she looked at him for too long. So she read the safe lettering on the barrels, wondering how many bricks there were-

"It's always the same one."

She looked at him then. "What is?"

Malfoy didn't meet her gaze, but stared at his tea. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his long eyelashes were congealed and falling out. His skin was pallid, stretched taut over his skull, as though he was a skeleton wearing flesh that was two sizes too small. And, damn it, despite it all, there was still something pretty about him, in the same way a rose retains its elegance even as it withers.

"My nightmare."

He looked like a skeleton but the fragility of his voice was all human.

Hermione found she clung to the humanity in him.

"It always starts with my Mother. She's sitting in the garden, next to her roses. She was always proud of her flowers. She grew them without magic, and when I was young, we'd spend hours planting seeds so the garden would be full of colour in spring...

"They're white. The roses. She looks so happy, like she used to before, and I'm standing a little way off, watching her. Sometimes I try to call to her but she never hears me. It's like I'm some sort of ghost, as if we're not in the same memory, or she's too far away, and then I hear a crack."

Malfoy craned his neck to the side, eyes screwed shut. Hermione saw the veins pulse under his skin.

"I turn around and my arm starts to burn, and He's there, in my drawing room. My father is behind Him, and my Aunt, and they're holding-" His breath hitched. "They've got you. And Potter. Even Weasley. You all look different, like you did that day. Dirty and frightened, with Potter's face so bloated he looked more like Longbottom in First Year. They throw you all at my feet and they ask me if you really are who they think you are. I can't answer. I never say anything. And then my-"

His breathing became panicked, and silent tears fell from Hermione's eyes. She watched him, and her hand gripped her arm tightly because she could feel the knife against her skin again.

"My aunt grabs you. She- she- _fuck_ , she- cuts you, and all I do is watch. I hear you screaming every time I close my eyes. Sometimes it's enough to wake me. But when it doesn't, when it's really bad, I manage to break free and I- I fucking run, Granger. I run from that room, and I leave you all there, and I run to my mother in the garden, and all the roses have bled red. And she just sits there, and I try to wake her up, to bring her back to me but she's gone. I wake up when everything starts to go cold and I feel this-" He stretched out his foot, dragging his trousers up to his knee, exposing the flashing blue anklet, "- fucking sentence against my leg. I wake up when I know they're coming for me, when I feel them reach for my soul."

Malfoy couldn't look at her. His lip was curled and his eyes were hooded, his fist clenched against his knee. Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.

She wanted desperately to hold his hand and to tell him things he needed to hear, but she worried she would be overcome with agony if she let go of the scar. Numbly, Hermione realised how the war was still raging, even though it had ended months ago. It hit her quite abruptly.

"You had no choice," she said quietly.

"Everyone has a choice, Granger. You said you get them too. What are yours about?"

"Mine change." Hermione swallowed. "I can never remember them when I wake up but they seem so- _real_ when I'm asleep. Sometimes it will be memories from the war. Sometimes it's things I anticipated happening but never did. But they're so- so hazy. I can't recall them."

She opened her mouth to say something more but the breath choked her. "I feel like every bone, every organ and part of me has been muddled up so thoroughly and completely that I'm no longer the same person. I have nothing in me anymore, Malfoy. I have nothing else to give."

"Don't say that," he murmured. His voice and eyes were ice.

"Why not?" she demanded. Hers were fire.

He slammed his hand on the table. "Because _you_ cannot lose hope! The moment Hermione Granger loses hope is the moment the rest of us realise we're fucked, okay, Granger? And I don't need that reminder!"

He'd risen, chair clattering to the ground behind him, and his shirt was buttoned unevenly so she could see the bruised flesh underneath. It was dark and purple, and Hermione clenched her teeth. She wanted to shout back at him. That ugly flare of fire that reared up in her stomach whenever Draco Malfoy opened his mouth had been dormant for so long. It was bizarre, she thought, so out of the blue that it made her snap her lips shut with the sudden clarity of it: Draco Malfoy was the only thing that made her feel anything anymore. It didn't matter that the feelings were usually annoyance or despair. It made her tense her jaw and have something to cling on to.

"I need to check your injuries. You vomited up most of the potions and you shouldn't even be out of bed," she said. Malfoy relaxed, but only just. He shrugged, tossing his head away from her, and she moved closer. Her fingers shook a little as she unbuttoned his shirt, and Hermione couldn't help but wince at the state of him. She prodded his stomach, eyes flicking to his face to check for any sign of pain. She knew Skelegrow worked fast but she had a feeling he was holding back. Her fingers dusted over the valley of his ribs, where the bruises covered his skin; she knew the yellower ones must have been from previous altercations, but the large, blue ones were so painfully fresh. Hermione dragged her eyes to his scar. It was so deep, and long, groping from his throat to his belt, almost as though someone had tried gutting him, slicing him open. It had to be dark magic. She could think of no legal spell that would do such irreparable damage- and it _was_ irreparable. Hermione could tell by the way the scab wept and threatened to break and bleed again. She doubted he would ever be free of it, and then wondered what he thought about that. She knew his vanity had once known no bounds, and wondered if he hated what he saw when he looked in the mirror now. The other, smaller cuts across his chest were shallower, and she wondered if these were Harry's doing. She chewed at her lip, and prayed to any God listening that they weren't. But then, she couldn't tell if that was better or worse.

She wished he didn't have scars at all.

Hermione dared to look up at him. He had his eyes closed. She took a deep breath. "Malfoy." He opened his eyes and looked at her. His eyes, though light, were dark. "I know this is a stupid question but- are you okay?"

He didn't even move. She couldn't tell if there was a scuffle between his brain and his teeth or if he hadn't heard her properly. And then, he said, "I'm fine, Granger. We should head back before Pomfrey realises you've kidnapped me."

Hermione couldn't spare him a laugh.

They thanked Winky for their tea, though Malfoy's remained untouched, and made their way back to the Hospital Wing in silence. Hermione used her wand to open the heavy doors without so much as a creak, and they slipped inside.

Malfoy shrugged off his shirt and his shoes, and he eased himself onto the bed.

"You should take some more potion," said Hermione.

Malfoy pulled a face. "You're not my caretaker, Granger."

Arms crossed, she raised her eyebrows at him. "I'm not? Then what have I been for the past twelve hours? You're babysitter?"

He settled himself into his pillow, pulling the covers up to his chin, but he still managed to glare at her. "Don't push it."

She huffed, but let it drop. Her body felt far too heavy, and she collapsed into the chair, resting her head on her hand and checking the time on her watch. If she fell asleep immediately, she could still squeeze three hours. Somehow, she doubted she'd even manage that, jasmine tea or not. There was something about this night that felt unattainable.

"Are you okay, Granger?"

Malfoy was looking up at her blearily, fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes open long enough to get an answer from her. Hermione swallowed. She smiled at him, and brushed a bit of white hair from his eyes because she knew he didn't have the strength to be rude about it.

"I'm Hermione Granger," she said quietly. "I have to be."


	7. Life Before

**Chapter Seven- Life Before**

"What the fuck did I say? Honestly, Draco. You better repeat it back to me, word-for-word so I know you're listening because I'm starting to get the impression that everything I say means nothing to you!"

Draco sighed, closing his book and raising his eyebrows at his friend. "Why, Blaise, I'm feeling much better, thank you for asking."

Blaise stopped short of his bedside, though he very much looked like he would like to storm closer and strangle Draco, seething as he was. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Don't tempt me, Draco. Merlin knows I want you to suffer more, you dumb fuckhead."

"Have you been practising this speech in the mirror? If so, I'm disappointed that's the version you went with. I'm sure you could do much better."

Blaise opened his mouth to retaliate, fist clenched by his side, but he just fell into the chair by Draco's bed. He buried his face in his hands. Draco sighed and put the book on his bedside table, reaching out for his friend. "Blaise-"

"You don't get it, Draco," he said before Draco could go any further, locking eyes with him. It didn't look like Blaise had slept much either if the circles under his eyes were anything to go by. He looked tired and defeated. "You might not care what happens to you anymore, but I do. Okay? I do. And you could drive yourself to the edge, you could stand on that cliff and try to throw yourself off, and I will still use all my power to keep your feet flat on the ground. Do you hear me, Draco? I won't let you destroy yourself. So either you're going to start caring or you're going to destroy me too. It's your choice now."

Draco stared at him. He wanted to tell him that caring was what had gotten him into this position in the first place, that he had loved too much and lost everything as a result. He didn't think Blaise would want to hear it, however, so he kept his mouth shut and hazarded a guess at how many bricks were in the opposite wall.

"How are you feeling?" asked Blaise, with a sigh.

"Like I've been kicked in the ribs a couple times," said Draco, and he gave his friend a small smile.

Blaise laughed a little, scratching his head. He said, "You deserved it. You shouldn't go picking fights with the next foolhardy dumbass that comes your way. The world's full of them- you'd never get a rest."

"I didn't pick this one. I tried to ignore him."

Blaise lounged back in his chair. "Then try harder next time."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "What did I miss in lesson?"

"Changing the subject doesn't negate the matter at hand." Nevertheless, Blaise stretched out his legs and leaned back in the chair, counting off on his fingers the extensive list of homework. "McGonagall set an essay on the limitations of conjuration-"

"Thrilling."

"-and we learned some new Runes we have to memorise. Defence was more of the same but you got it first try, so nothing missed there. Oh, and Slughorn started the coursework. There are a few regulations but it's pretty much open to anything so I'll give you my notes when you get out." He paused. "If you get out."

Draco snorted. "If?"

"You never know, Hamelin might come back and finish the job when he finds out you're still breathing."

"Hopefully, he'll get a move on, then," said Draco. Blaise scowled. "Hang on, how did you know which foolhardy prick it was?"

His friend smirked a little at that, folding back his sleeves. "I have my sources, Draco." He sobered up. "You're fucking stupid with how you handled it."

Draco looked away. He wasn't easy to chastise. His parents had always been strict and he most certainly knew how to behave and all the rules of etiquette, but he rarely felt the stinging of reprimand and if he did, it never lasted long. His father had either neglected to speak to him, locking himself in his study for days on end, or beat him with the silver cane he always carried. Chiding was drowned out by the crack of the stick against his skin. His mother had a sharp tongue but she followed it up with tender touches, brushing his hair or stroking his face, that the aftermath of his mother's scolding never really hurt. There was something about Blaise's blasé tone, however, and the way his rebuke left no room for argument that smarted more than Draco cared to admit.

"I hadn't slept."

"Cut the bullshit, Draco. I know you. I know how you think. You're not a bad guy, far from it, but if that Ravenclaw prick wanted a villain, I know that you'd be more than willing to accommodate him. You've got to understand that a mark on your arm doesn't make you evil."

"That's easy for you to say," muttered Draco bitterly. "Your arm is clean."

Blaise fell silent at that. He'd been one of the lucky ones. His mother, although high in standing, had ostracised herself from the Death Eaters' ranks when, shortly after becoming a widow, she took her first Muggle lover, though Draco doubted she knew then that it would save both her own life and that of her son. She was also a smooth enough talker to wheedle her way out of it, a charmer of snakes with the uncanny knack of knowing what you were feeling with only a glance into your eyes: an infuriating ability she had passed onto her only heir.

Blaise stared at him, and he avoided looking at his friend because he knew what he'd give away if he did, and he wasn't sure he was ready to crack and pour every remaining morsel of hope into the abyss.

"He needed someone to blame," said Draco in a low voice. "They all did. It was all I could give them.

Blaise watched him, his dark eyes unsure and unsteady. "The war is over, Draco."

He screwed his eyes shut and when he swallowed, it strained his throat. "No, Blaise. It's not even close."

Blaise didn't reply. He hauled his bag onto his lap and made a pile of what Draco suspected was all the work he'd missed. Draco knew better than to complain. His stomach whirled and he was glad he hadn't eaten that morning because he was sure it would come back up.

"You took your time in coming to see me," he said instead. He flicked through the Transfiguration work but he didn't see a word of it.

Blaise retrieved an orange from his bag and, without breaking eye contact, began peeling it. His lips twisted into a wry smile. "Thought I'd finally given up on you?"

"Thought you'd finally come to your senses," muttered Draco.

Blaise laughed. He hummed. "Yeah. You keep saying that." He popped an orange piece into his mouth. "If it's any consolation, I did come sooner."

Draco's eyes shot to him. "You did?"

"Yesterday. I came to see if you were still alive." Draco waited and he realised he was holding his breath. Blaise glanced at him. "You were. You also weren't alone."

It was almost as though his heart had dropped through a chasm in his chest. One moment, it had been pounding so hard he thought it might break through his skin and run away, and the next it had plummeted to his stomach, into a darkness so deep he couldn't hear it ticking. Draco let out the breath he had been holding to see if his heart would start up again. It didn't.

"Why was Hermione Granger here, Draco?"

"She brought me here."

"Let me rephrase then. Why did she stay?"

Draco swallowed, but his throat was dry and the taste of Blaise's question was bitter. It wasn't like the question was one he hadn't asked himself. He'd asked himself that question a million times since he'd woken up that morning to find the bedsheets still tucked up to his chin and the chair beside his bed tucked neatly to the side. Part of him, a very small part, scathingly suggested that she was just doing what she'd always done: Draco was just her next pet project. He'd noticed she had a thing for the broken and forgotten when she burst into his carriage in First Year, spouting off about some toad. He hadn't really listened, eyeing her bushy hair and buck teeth with a sneer because he knew she couldn't possibly be Pure enough to step foot in one of his Mother's parties, but the name Longbottom had jumped out at him. Of course he'd heard that name before. The boy who it belonged to was broken and bumbling and Draco knew it the moment he laid eyes on him. He didn't think twice about the girl but he supposed it made sense now. The fact that she made friends with Potter and Weasley only seemed to cement the fact. Then, there was the mortifying disaster of her bloody House Elf campaign.

Granger had a thing for lost souls.

Draco Malfoy was not lost. He was not broken and forgotten. He would not be the next charm in her string of miserable misfits the world chewed up and spat on. He was not in the gutter and even if he was, Hermione Granger was most certainly not going to be the one to haul him out. Draco didn't want her pity.

And yet, there was another part of him, a little bit bigger than the last part, that sought her out in the corridor. When the doors of the Hospital Wing opened, he would automatically assume she was back to check he still had a pulse. He didn't want her to. He still couldn't stand to look at the despair in her eyes, nor listen to the bossy know-it-all voice she used on him, but some part of him yearned for those things. Draco wondered if it was because she was unwavering normalcy, a snippet of Life Before. That he clung to Granger was terrifying enough- he didn't allow himself the liberty to dwell on any other reason why it might be so, because the moment he'd done so, all he could hear was the clatter of the spoon as it fell from her nose and her surprised laugh.

"Are you friends?" Blaise asked. His voice was even, neither mocking nor curious but Draco heard both regardless.

He said immediately, "No."

The silence that followed was hard and unrelenting that he couldn't let it persist.

"She helps me sleep," he murmured. It was the most he could allow himself without tearing a massive hole in his body and letting his organs spill out. Any more and he'd give himself entirely to her. "I don't know how. I don't know why her. She's as empty as I am and maybe I like seeing her broken, maybe it's some leftover part of the person I used to be, or maybe it's a reminder I'm not alone in this constant fucking nightmare. We're both wrecked and somehow, I get peace from the fact."

When Draco looked at his friend, Blaise's face was taut and pained. "You hated each other for years... and now, you're- what? Civil for the sake of a good night's sleep?"

"I still hate her," said Draco but it was too quick. "She makes me feel weak."

Blaise leaned back in his chair. He watched Draco for a very long time, and he must've caught the twitch of his eye and the crack in his voice. He must have seen everything that had happened, all of his nightmares, all the horrors from the war that played out in his eyes, every single secret meeting with Granger, because it encompassed the sag of his shoulders and crumbling resolution of his face. When Blaise spoke next, Draco remembered how to breathe.

"I'll be honest with you, Draco. It sounds to me like she makes you feel hope."


	8. Life Now

**Chapter Eight- Life Now**

Malfoy's bed was empty and made when Hermione returned to the Hospital Wing later that day. She had brought a book that had reminded her of him from the library and a small parcel of food from the kitchens, and had just turned the corner when she noticed he was suspiciously absent. The room was empty and all she could do was stand and stare at the place he had been. When her brain caught up, Hermione turned on her heel and went back to the Common Room.

It had been three days since she had last seen him.

Malfoy didn't turn up for any of their lessons. Hermione didn't see him in the Great Hall. They didn't cross paths when they went on their midnight wanders when neither of them could sleep.

She found the insomnia worse than before, waking as soon as the sun stirred if she fell asleep at all, and spent every moment of her free time in the library. Working distracted her. It tired her out too so that even if she couldn't sleep during the night, she managed a nap at the very least. Hermione sat with Ginny and Neville at mealtimes, pretending to listen. They spoke about insignificant things and sometimes Luna would join them, and the conversation would reach a level of absurd that Hermione would tune out straight away. She still wrote to Harry and Ron. Mrs Weasley still sent her knitted scarves and gloves and hats.

But Hermione felt lonely.

Try as she might, she couldn't stop her eyes from seeking him out. There was something about the fury in Malfoy, the unbridled fear and feeling, that reminded her she was alive too. Hermione didn't think he realised it, but he believed in her.

She needed his belief in her.

That was the reason, she convinced herself, that she was currently chasing Blaise Zabini down the corridor, walking as quickly as her legs would carry her, neglecting the fact that she had Ancient Runes next and her school bag was on her bed back in her dorm. The Slytherin was much taller than her and he walked faster. The coattails of his green cloak were about to disappear around the corner when Hermione broke into a run and called, "Zabini!"

Whether he didn't hear her or he ignored her, she didn't know.

She huffed and skirted round the corner. "Zabini!"

Now, he stopped and turned around.

Hermione didn't think she'd ever spoken a word to the boy in front of her. He'd never been particularly loud or vehement in his distaste for people like her and whilst he was intelligent enough to be in most of her classes, he kept mostly to himself. Blaise Zabini was tall and impassive. He didn't radiate disgust like Malfoy always used to, but gave the impression that he was somewhat impatient with everyone that wasted their breath on him. He regarded her with a single raised eyebrow.

She took a breath.

"Have you seen-?"

He didn't let her finish.

"I'll be straight with you, Granger, because I'm a Slytherin and we have a reputation for being honest, even to the point of brutality." Hermione snapped her lips shut. "I don't like you. I've never liked you. Your blood status didn't help, but I don't care for all that. You rub me up the wrong way- too smartass and haughty." He spoke so matter-of-fact, but his voice wavered now, fading and regaining track again unsteadily. "So if you've got some kind of agenda, if you get some kind of- of sick kick out of seeing Draco down and beaten, then I don't want you anywhere near him..."

Hermione stared at him, dumbfounded. She felt her gut coil with fury and she opened her mouth to argue when Zabini cut her off. He pinched his nose tiredly.

"That being said... when I saw you by his side in the Hospital Wing, I- you help him sleep. I don't know how. I don't know why you. Somehow, despite your irritating volume, you quiet everything in his head, so... thank you, Granger. Before he got the shit beaten out of him and you hauled his sorry arse back to reality, I- I honestly thought that was it. That he was dead, that he'd died years ago. Now, I'm starting to think he survived the war after all."

Hermione didn't look at him. Her eyes traced the cracks in the stone floor. "The fighting might be over but the war is still happening, Zabini. He's survived so far. But I think he's still teetering over the edge."

She still wasn't looking at him so she heard rather than saw his despair, for it caught in his throat when he said, "How do I catch him if he falls?"

Now, Hermione raised her chin and she smiled at him. Zabini had never been so vulnerable; she threw him entirely off guard. "This war has claimed too many people. I won't let it claim another. Draco Malfoy will not fall. I refuse to let him."

"He's too proud for that, Granger. You know he is."

Hermione sighed. "I know. If I knew another arse-kicking would knock him out of it, I'd gladly do it myself, but I'm not sure."

Zabini chuckled, but the sound died on his lips too quickly, as if he remembered who they were and what they were talking about. "He's immune to physical pain now. You don't know what they did to him, Granger."

"Then tell me," she whispered.

Zabini stared at her. A muscle clenched in his jaw. "They broke him. Now, he's facing a life sentence for trying to survive."

Hermione's body went cold. Her stomach dropped and she felt the horror crawling through her veins, rushing in the blood to her head. "Life?"

"You didn't know?"

She could only shake her head. Her hands shook _. Dear God, how could anyone condemn a child?_

Zabini shifted, holding his head in his hand for a moment. He said, "Don't tell him I told you."

"Where is he?" she managed to get out.

He looked at her unsurely. "Granger…"

"Zabini, he helps me sleep too."

There was a sliver of indecision playing across his face, tearing at the indifference he usually wore there but Hermione stood her ground. The school bell rung but she ignored it. Ancient Runes could wait because Draco Malfoy was in pain and she needed to find him.

Zabini eyed her cautiously. "What are you going to do, Granger?"

She pursed her lips and tilted her chin ever so slightly higher. "I'm going to give him a piece of my mind whilst he's still around for me to do it."

 **oOoOoOo**

Somehow, she managed to convince Zabini. She wondered if it was the conviction in her voice or if he had seen her soul leaking out of her eyes. Either way, Hermione found herself traipsing down the sloping lawns with her back to the school she was meant to be studying in, cloak whipping about her legs, heart in her mouth. She followed the path down to the lake, then skirted right towards the forest, curving round the banking where the trees thickened into shade and the sticks cracking under her feet provided the only pathway back to the rest of the world. Sound cut off suddenly and she was left alone with the shakiness of each breath and the pounding of her heart in her ears.

"Head towards the Black Lake," Zabini had said. "Follow it round, even when the footpath ends, keep going. There's a little hidden shingle. He likes the quietness there."

Hermione waded through the shadows. She knew he wouldn't be thrilled to see her, especially not entreating on his secret space, but he'd avoided her for long enough. Her mind was whirring with things she needed to say to him, but every outcome resulted in him running away from her or sneering in her face and she didn't know if she could cope with either. He needed to hear this. The truth would hurt him but it might also save him and sweet Merlin, if the latter was a possibility, Hermione Granger was going to try it.

A life sentence.

She remembered sitting with him on the cold stone floor, staring at the blinking band around his ankle. _Pending trial._ Hermione had no idea then that it was so serious. She thought he might be on for house arrest or community work. But as she walked through the chill, she heard his voice, broken and terrified:

 _"I wake up when I know they're coming for me, when I feel them reach for my soul."_

It was cold out already. September had frozen into October and winter was crisp and ready on the air, curling leaves that clung to branches and stealing every breath that left her lips. Hermione wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck because, despite the cold, when she caught sight of him, she was sure it dropped a few degrees colder.

It wasn't so much that he was a cold person, more his countenance never held a flicker of warmth, and the marble like features of his face ensured he looked more like a statue, than a living human being. His large chest barely moved when he breathed, and his eyes would regard everything with an air of boredom. He was impossibly tall, with pale skin, never fused with blush, and blond hair that remained the only thing to be moved by outside influences when the wind threaded through it. But what really struck her were his eyes: two light and icy glaciers, more blue than the summer skies, enough to make even the sun freeze over. He hid everything in those eyes.

"Malfoy."

He seized up.

"What are you doing here, Granger?" he asked in a low voice.

Seeing him now, the words she had practised in her head, all the rationality she had stored inside of her, flooded from her tongue. Hermione only felt tangible relief, so profound it almost made her sob. It was short-lived, however, and in its place, the terrible head of anger reared, infecting her entire body. She couldn't hold it back. When she stopped, rooted to the spot, and he turned to face her, Hermione could only stare at him and clench her gloved fists.

"Why have you been avoiding me?"

Malfoy's lips twisted. "I haven't been avoiding you, Granger. It's a big castle. People like us, we don't cross paths naturally."

"What do you mean?" she asked. "People like us?"

His breath was harsh and derisive. "Do you really have to ask?"

"Clearly."

Malfoy pressed his lips into a line and stared at her for a moment. He shook his head a little, and said, "Granger, we are on different sides of this fight-"

"What fight, Malfoy?" demanded Hermione. She started forwards but he matched her with each step back. "There is some non-existent battle between us that you seem to think you're losing! I know you close your eyes and we're back in the war but we are not fighting one another, Malfoy. We're on the same side of this life. Maybe it's not the side we want to be on because it's harder here, but that's the way it is, so suck it up and live, Malfoy, because no one is going to do it for you!"

His face twisted, like he'd swallowed something sour, and he turned away, towards the lake. The afternoon sun danced across the surface, and Hermione had to squint to take it in. The sheer audacity of the sunlight warmed her skin. She closed her eyes briefly.

"I don't care anymore, Granger," said Malfoy.

Hermione looked at him. "Well I do. So you better start caring or I swear to God-"

"What? What will you do?" He laughed. It was bitter and cold and she flinched. "You can't do any worse."

"Can't I?"

Malfoy winced.

She sighed heavily, the rest of her frustration falling from her lips like a stone in water. "I feel like we only ever go in circles. We've had a variation of this same conversation over and over again."

"Then stop it," he murmured.

"What?" demanded Hermione. The fury sparked in her again. "Is it so bad? That you're the only thing that makes me feel even relatively alive?"

He whipped around, and his hair glinted in the dying sunlight. Hermione felt her heart ache; his lips were thin and red, splitting along the seam where he'd bitten them to stop from crying out or screaming, and his face was screwed up in nothing short of agony.

"Yes! It is! It's the worst fucking thing, Granger, because we are not friends." Malfoy moved so close to her, and he was seething. His teeth were bared and clenched and he hissed his words, of spraying her with spit. There was a blue vein pulsating in his forehead. "I made your life hell for seven years. I see you screaming, bleeding out in my house, every night when I try to sleep. I don't need this, Granger! I don't need this, and I don't need you! Just do us both a favour and fuck off."

He started toward her and Hermione stumbled backwards, tripping over the pebbles on the beach. She couldn't tear her eyes away from him, even as they teared up. "Why must you keep saying that? Do you think I've forgotten where we stood before the war? Do you think this is normal to me? That I like being so dependent on someone who hates my guts?"

Malfoy stopped. He stared at her, breathing heavily. The trees sighed, the wind curled around their ankles, kissing their necks, and it was almost as though they were a hurricane, wreaking havoc through a field of flowers.

The words were torn from his lips.

"I don't hate you."

"I-" she stopped. Her voice died in her throat. She had to swallow before she could continue and even then, she sounded weak. "Then why are you avoiding me?"

"I can't stand to look at you, Granger." He broke and, sure enough, his eyes clung to the ground. She could see the way his face crumpled, "because I need you. I fucking need you."

The words froze in the air. They seemed to echo, then stop completely, so tangible Hermione could almost read them, or reach out and take them before they dissipated into the October mist forever.

"Malfoy, look at me," said Hermione. He didn't want to. She could see the pain in his face, weighing his lips down, making the veins in his neck bulge. She moved closer to him, slowly so he had all the time in the world to move away, but when he didn't, Hermione stepped in front of him and took hold of his face in her hands. He was so cold. She could feel the chill of his skin through her gloves. Malfoy was crying. She whispered, "This is life now. We're broken but we're trying to fix ourselves. I know you're scared. You don't have to admit it out loud, but I want you to know that I will stay with you through the darkness. I see you, Draco Malfoy, and I won't let you fall."


	9. Snowfall

**Chapter Nine- Snowfall**

Draco Malfoy needed Hermione Granger.

It was something he didn't like to admit to himself, even though the fact sometimes crept up on him. He found himself looking for her in a crowd, craning his neck to catch sight of that bird's nest on top of her head, or straining to hear a snippet of her voice. The only lessons he could bear without twitching and tapping his fingers against his leg, counting down the seconds until the bell would ring and he could leave, were the ones she was in. He started eating breakfast in the Great Hall simply because he knew she'd be there too. He made sure she was eating. If Blaise wouldn't let him starve to death, then he'd be damned if he let Granger escape the same way.

So yes, Draco needed Hermione Granger.

Blaise knew it. He would be talking and when he realised his friend wasn't listening in the slightest, he would stop and sigh or smirk. Draco would look away hastily at that smirk. But at least he no longer tried to sneak food onto his plate or interrogate him on his sleeping patterns, or lack thereof.

Hell, Hermione Granger knew it. She was significantly less smug about the fact since the words had been wrenched from his unwilling lips and seemed, if anything, just as embarrassed about the whole situation as he was.

Still, Draco refused to recognise that the stubborn Gryffindor, who'd slapped him so hard in Third Year he'd had to ask Pansy to cover the bruise up with her charmed makeup, was likely the only thing helping him sleep.

She found him sitting on the banking of the lake that evening. She would find him in the oddest places, slipping beside him, that Draco had come to wait for her presence, whether he wanted it or not. Now, Granger sat beside him on the grass, rubbing her hands together and blowing them.

She commented numbly, "Snow will be falling soon."

Draco glanced at her, then followed her gaze, craning back his neck to take in the heavy, grey clouds and naked trees. He hadn't noticed but he supposed it was cold. The dying sun dropped behind the trees another inch. "Yes. I suppose it will be."

"It's so unfair," she said and he wondered if she was aware that her voice trembled. "Why does life get to move on as though nothing has happened?"

Draco sighed. "Because that's what life does, Granger."

"What about us?" she asked.

"The ones that can't keep up get swept under the rug and left behind. We don't get the choice."

She was quiet. It was something he wasn't really used to: Hermione Granger silent. Whatever relief it might have ignited in him before was doused in the discomfort it sparked now. He didn't like it.

"Can you keep up?"

If she found the question odd, she didn't show it. She simply stared out across the lake, eyebrows pulled together in a small frown, as if she was truly contemplating her answer.

Eventually, she said, "I'm not sure. I think so."

They were quiet for a few more moments and then her eyes slid sideways to him and she said, "Can you?"

Draco didn't reply.

They let the sunset soak over them, catching their breaths when they froze in the air, caress their sweet and tangible youth, and allow them to feel as if they would retain that youth forever.

"I think you can," she said quietly.

Draco felt the anger flare up inside of him and before he could stop himself, he snapped, "Oh, because you know me so well, Granger?"

The way her eyes flashed made him instantly want to grapple for the words and shove them back down his throat. He sighed, looking away.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. Hermione's jaw clenched regardless and she stared stonily at the water.

"Actually no," she said after a while. "I think you can keep up with the way life carries on because you're talking to me. If you were lost, if you'd been brushed under the rug as you so put it, you'd have long disappeared by now. But here you are. You're still fighting, Draco. That has to count for something… I think it counts for everything."

Draco felt his heart stop. Maybe it sped up. He wasn't sure because it had been so long since it had done anything of the sort. He didn't look at her.

She shifted beside him, drawing her knees up under her chin and wrapping her arms around them. She was wearing a Muggle padded coat, zipped to her neck, and jeans. It was too cold for October. Maybe the world was in mourning too. Granger blew some hair from her face. "Are we friends yet?"

Draco opened his mouth and he wanted to laugh because the question exasperated him so much and it was easier than grappling for an answer. He shook his head. "No, Granger. We're not friends."

He ignored the feeling of her shoulders slumping and couldn't stop himself from adding, whether it was to spare her or himself, "You don't want me as a friend."

"I think I should be allowed to decide that for myself," Granger sniffed, and he recognised that self-righteous tilt to her voice and rolled his eyes. Despite it all, it made him smile slightly. "You know, I don't understand why you continue to raise your heckles when I tell you I believe in you. Is my belief really such a bad thing?"

Draco swallowed. It felt like there was shrapnel in his throat. He shook his head a little. "I don't deserve it, Granger."

"Oh be quiet," she snapped. In his surprise, he turned to look at her. Granger was scowling at him. Her cheeks were pink, a bit fuller than they had been at the start of term, and her eyes sparked. She looked livelier, almost like the Granger he remembered. For a few seconds, they stared at one another before she huffed and rolled her eyes. "You _are_ difficult."

Draco forgot everything else, spluttering indignantly. "Excuse _you_."

Granger raised her eyebrows. "I just don't understand your problem. The war is- it's over, Malfoy. The war is over and the monster is dead. You need to move on with your life and stop acting like you've given up-"

"You don't believe that, Granger," he said, and he cursed himself for not being able to look at her. The way she'd tripped over the words proved she didn't truly believe in what she was preaching. He screwed his eyes shut. He knew that if he looked at her, he'd shatter and weep and he couldn't do either of those things because it was all he seemed to do lately and he feared that if he started again, he'd never stop.

She shut her mouth. "What?"

"That the war is over," said Draco. "You, more than anyone, know it's not. And if the monsters are really dead... why am I still alive?"

He spat out that last bit. He'd held it in his mouth for so long it tasted bitter and sour and Draco heard the way his voice cracked. Hermione looked at him, lips pursed tightly. Her eyes were furious and hot. She said firmly, "You are not a monster, Draco Malfoy."

The words felt to make physical contact with him, puncturing his gut, and he clenched his jaw shut to stop himself from breaking because his throat trembled. All he could was scoff because anything else would give him away. He tried to stand up, throwing out, "I'm done with this conversation," but Granger, the stupid bint, reached for him, touching his arm and it burned. He recoiled, falling back onto the grass.

"You don't even know me!" he spat. He made sure the distance between them stayed. Granger had frozen in the air, watching him with her mouth parted as though the breath had stopped from her lips. She made him furious. She made him _feel_ \- "You just showed up out of the blue after not giving a damn for years, expecting me to care, expecting me to make an effort to live when I just want to fucking die! Can't you see, Granger? Just let me die. I'm not another one of your pity cases. I don't need your pity, Granger! You don't know half the things I've done-"

"Draco-" she was crying. Draco's heart definitely stopped at the sound of his name, tumbling from her lips in that desperate and ragged way. She pleaded it. Begged. "But I don't want you to die."

His face crumpled. He gave in. He couldn't hold on any longer. He started crying, and it hurt. Merlin, it hurt. She'd taken off her mittens and she touched his hand. It seared where their skin met. She flicked her hair back and he caught the smell of her strawberry shampoo. Her breath was quick and sharp on the air around him. He couldn't escape her. "I know you won't want to hear this but you need to hear it, okay? Sometimes you don't need to beg for redemption. Sometimes it comes and finds you."

Draco didn't move. He was still half sprawled on the banking of the Black Lake, feeling the wetness of the October dew seep into his clothes because he'd forgotten to cast a warming and drying charm. His body was hot though. He was breathing hard and his eyes were wet and the castle behind him and the forest behind her were all faded, shapes against the white expanse of sky but _she_ \- she was there, close and real, lips pink like peonies in spring, reaching out to him and Draco could have sobbed in relief had he deserved her. He'd have given anything to deserve her.

"I don't deserve redemption," he said and his voice was now low, ragged and broken; a fractured sob that not even the approaching stars could hear.

"Maybe not, but I'm giving it to you anyway." Granger stared at him, his hands were clasped tightly in hers, and he was finally shattering. It was like he had been strong for so long, too long, and now his anguish was pouring out of him: against all odds, Hermione Granger was there to catch it. "You're forgiven, Draco. Whether you feel you deserve to be or not, I forgive you."

Draco stared at her then, with a little bit of disbelief tainting his red-rimmed eyes. Hermione stroked his cheek, wiping away his tears, and she smiled a small smile. He laid back, melted into the grass, staring up at the darkening sky as it bleached white in the absence of light and the shadows shot through the clouds. Granger moved.

"Stay," Draco whispered. His hand was clutching hers so hard that both their knuckles had turned white. It cost him everything to plead with her. "Please stay with me."

"Of course."

He heard her swallow and she moved to lay next to him. They stayed on the banking for a little while longer, hands tightly together between them, until the first stars blinked open their bleary eyes and the first snow started to fall.


	10. Fire and Powder

**Chapter Ten- Fire and Powder**

He knew the exact moment she entered the Room of Requirement. If the way the door slammed to a close wasn't enough, then it might have been the clicking of her shoes, or the soft chuntering that grew louder the closer she got, but Draco thought the most telling sign was the way the air changed, almost like it did before a storm.

He raised his eyebrows, slid a bit of spare paper to keep his page, and looked up in time to see Hermione Granger bursting over to him. She stomped closer, fell onto the settee opposite, and huffed.

"Happy as ever, Granger," he commented.

She glared at him and pushed her frazzled curls away from her face. "Don't. I am not in the mood, Malfoy."

She'd been calling him by his first time for a few weeks now, and his surname rolling from her tongue reminded him of normalcy, of a time Before. He wasn't sure he really preferred it. She must be vexed for her to revert back.

Still, Draco almost smirked. His cheeks were hollow, the crescents under his eyes black, and he felt his ribs dig into his flesh every time he shifted, but the smirk on his lips settled like a blanket around his shoulders, like an old skin. Granger's hair was sparking. "What's got your knickers in a twist?"

"Talk about my knickers one more time and I'll hex you so hard you'll end up in Hogsmeade," she rummaged through her bag and hauled out a heavy book and a few scrolls of parchment.

Without another word, she started working. The Room had procured some sort of study: there were two black leather settees in the centre of the space, a coffee table reclined between them and a carpet stretched under their feet; a fire crackled contently in the hearth and bookshelves stood tall and stacked, like a forest around them. He didn't remember there being this many bookshelves when he walked in. Bloody Granger.

Speaking of, Draco watched her. He drummed his fingers on the cover of the book he had been reading, but found that he'd lost interest entirely. "Why are you annoyed?"

Granger's shoulders tensed. She mumbled (and he only just caught her through that mass of hair), "I'm not."

He scoffed. "Spare me."

Her head shot up and she glared at him and snapped, "Mind your own business."

Draco clicked his tongue, flicking his eyes away. "And here, I thought we were becoming friends."

He knew that would get to her and had to fight the smirk that was slinking its way back along his lips. In the corner of his eye, he caught her hair whip her face as she looked at him. Granger cleared her throat. She shuffled in her seat.

"Harry and Ron are working over Halloween," she said haltingly. "They said they'd try to visit but it doesn't sound like they have the time anymore. Something about a massive workload and a looming deadline. They've probably had all summer to do it and just procrastinated."

"Massive workload," Draco murmured. "Sounds like overcompensating."

She snorted. He looked at her in surprise and his lips quirked in a smile. "Something like that," she agreed. Granger looked up at him. Her eyes fell on the book. "What are you reading?"

"I'm surprised it took you so long to ask," he remarked drolly.

She scowled.

He picked the book up and flipped her the front cover so she could see for herself. An eyebrow rose.

"How... Muggle."

Draco swallowed. He felt a slight niggle at the tone of her voice. "What's wrong with that?"

Granger's eyes darted to his face and she said, "Nothing! I just didn't peg you as a Shakespeare enthusiast."

"He's a talented playwright."

"He's Muggle."

"I'm not a bloody fool, Granger. I'm well aware of his heritage."

"I'm simply-"

"He's historically responsible for modern language!" exclaimed Draco. "It's not Muggle Studies. It's- cultural!"

"Of course!" agreed Granger. She hesitated. There was something sly about the way her eyes slid away and back. "I just didn't expect a romance."

"It's a tale of conflict and warring families," he snapped.

"It's a love story, Malfoy," she said and she was smiling now. He pursed his lips. He knew he couldn't win.

She returned her attention to her work and Draco turned the book back around and carried on reading. He read the same page three times before he knew it wasn't going to sink in.

"You should read Anthony and Cleopatra next, if you like love stories," said Granger after a moment. Incensed, Draco's head shot to her and he noticed the smile still curling her lips. He twitched.

"It's not a love story, Granger. It's got violence in it-"

"Oh Draco," she sighed, throwing her hair back to regard him. She looked bemused. "It's the greatest love story of all time!"

He pulled a face and mumbled, "Well, it's not a very good one. They both die."

"No love story is complete without a bit of struggle," said Granger. "It's not worth it if it's not something you're willing to fight for."

Draco looked at her. He cleared his throat and said, "You sound like Potter."

He thought he managed to scrape the disdain from his voice.

Granger snorted. Perhaps not. "Haven't you got over that yet?"

Draco frowned. He knew exactly what she was talking about, but he just shrugged. "Old habits die hard, I suppose."

"Yes, well. If it makes you feel any better," she said. There was a secretive smile curling her lips and he suspected her friends had hurt her more than she dared to admit in their misplaced priorities. "This would drive Harry and Ron mental."

Draco dropped his eyes to the book. "What would?"

"Our friendship," she said. She was flushed. He wasn't sure if he hadn't been paying enough attention to her before or if her cheeks just lit up even pinker and that threw everything about her into sharp definition. Granger's eyes were wide, ringed with gold. There were freckles over the bridge of her nose and her cardigan buttons were all mixed up, buttoned incorrectly. She must've come running from somewhere because she was glowing with a sweet mixture of cold and exertion and her hair was flecked with melting snow.

He pursed his lips but didn't correct her, looking down.

"You haven't told them?"

Draco kept his eyes on the page but he hadn't read a word since she'd walked in. He tried to keep his voice neutral. Granger shot him a look that implied he was an idiot asking an idiotic question she shouldn't have to answer.

"Draco, we meet in a secret room and leave ten minutes between both arriving and leaving. If you don't want to be seen with me at Hogwarts, I'm not telling my friends a hundred miles away. It would be a waste of ink and they'd panic for no reason, thinking I'd gone mad!"

There was a moment of silence. Draco wasn't sure whether it was his imagination or if the fire really did shrink and douse the room in a frigid coldness. He forced himself to ask it. It tasted bitter and scraped the roof of his mouth-

"Because I'm a Death Eater?"

"Because you're the boy their childhood revolves around besting!" she exclaimed, dismissing him so effortlessly he remembered quite suddenly how easy it was to breathe. "Honestly! Sometimes I think the only things they ever moaned about were Quidditch and Malfoy! It was borderline obsessive!"

Draco could feel his face heat up. He frowned and put his book to the side, shrugging casually. "I can't remember Potter really getting mentioned in my conversations."

Granger looked at him like she knew what a liar he was but she hummed and let him have it, this time.

Her looks always disarmed him; it was like she could see through him, through all his disguises, through the shroud he had draped over himself that clogged his lungs and threatened to choke him. She made him feel naked but for the first time, like he could breathe again.

They met here most days, often throughout lunch and up till curfew on an evening. Sometimes, they did homework. Rarely, they spoke. Mostly they just read.

"We should go to Hogsmeade this weekend," she said suddenly. "I haven't been for years."

Draco's head whipped up and he blinked at her. "What?"

"I'm starting to go a little stir-crazy," she laughed. "I think it would be nice to get out-"

She had ducked her head to continue working and Draco was glad she couldn't see his face. He closed his eyes briefly and his throat went dry again.

"I can't, Granger."

"Of course you can, Draco." Granger threw her hair back and declared, "Don't you feel trapped here?"

She didn't notice the way his face drained of colour. "Granger, you don't-"

"We don't have to stay for long, only an hour or so-"

"No, that's not what-"

"-and then you can go back to moping. Come on, Draco, just one day-"

 _"I can't!"_

He slammed the book down on the arm of the settee and shifted his body and his ankle band whacked against the leg of the table. Blinking.

Granger closed her mouth.

Draco closed his eyes.

"I can't, Granger," he said. His voice was heavy. The air was silent and heavier still. "I can't leave the castle grounds."

"What do you mean?" she asked in a small voice. Her eyes finally focused on him.

He didn't want to look at her. He didn't want to see the way her face changed, like he'd let her down. "It's part of the agreement. I get to wait here pending my trial instead of- instead of Azkaban. But I can't leave. It's the same sort of imprisonment. Just a different prison."

"You're not a criminal!" she fumed. Her voice shook and Draco wasn't sure if it was anger or tears. "What do they think is going to happen-!"

"The last time I went to Hogsmeade, I cursed Katie Bell." He spoke so resignedly, rubbing the bridge of his nose, staring at the floor. His shoes were scuffed. "I hate it but their fears aren't exactly unfounded."

Granger just stared at him. Her lips were pursed, her nostrils flared, her eyes wet.

"Those were different circumstances."

"Not as far as the Ministry is concerned," said Draco, picking back up his book and smoothing out the flexed spine. He pretended to read. He knew she was still thinking about it. Her eyebrows were furrowed and she was staring at the grains in the table. They sat in silence for a very long time, until the bookshelves cast looming shadows and the fire had died down to an ember.

"Do you have the date for your trial yet?"

Draco swallowed. He turned the page.

"No."

He refocused on the words, the lie seeping through his body, turning his blood into lead. He ended up reading the same line over and over and over:

 _'These violent delights have violent ends_

 _And in their triumph die, like fire and powder_

 _Which, as they kiss,_ _ **consume.'**_

He did have the date of his trial, tucked under his pillow, and in the crevice of his mind, for safekeeping.

5th June. His birthday.

 **AN: Hi guys! This story is certainly not abandoned! I've just been very very busy recently- I applied to uni! Scary times... But then I received a really lovely review and I found the inspiration to write this and the next chapter is well on the way too so hopefully, there shouldn't be too long of a wait before the next update! Thank you for your continued support and love!**


	11. Ashes

**Chapter Eleven- Ashes**

Hermione didn't know if she was mad or desperate or maybe a little bit of both. Whatever it was, she stood before the stone gargoyle at the foot of the Head's office, twisting her hands and wondering if it wouldn't be better if she just listened for once and refrained from getting involved in other people's business.

But it wasn't quite as simple as that. Sometimes, when he was reading and she was sure he wouldn't notice, Hermione would watch Draco Malfoy. That meant that she noticed his little ticks, the twitch in his hand, the sporadic tightness of his lips as he twisted them, the way his foot would tap rhythmically and repetitively against the floor, tick-tocking, counting down the time until his trial-

He was going stir crazy locked up in this castle. He needed freedom. At least, a taste of it. Just to keep him going.

She sucked her cheeks in, wringing her hands. The Headmistress of Hogwarts was the only person Hermione trusted to ask for help, the only one she thought might care.

Stealing another moment, she inhaled deeply and before she could stall a second more, said, "Lemon Drops!"

Though the password came out as a rush of frantic air, the stone gargoyle obediently leapt aside, revealing the hidden staircase. Hermione swallowed, clenched and unclenched her fists by her side, and started up the steps. She knocked as soon as she reached the top, knowing her nerve might break if she hesitated again.

"Come in."

Hermione cracked the door open and slid into the room. The office hadn't changed much since before the war. The walls were still lined with shelves stacked high of all sorts of odd thingumabobs, devices with contractable arms and dials and buttons, plants that had to be chained to keep them in check but which nevertheless invaded other shelves and curled its way around picture frames holding certificates, vials and bottles of potions of all different colours, candles that never stopped burning, old books, peeling, leather-bound, thousands of pages long, withered globes of countries Hermione had never heard of, historical artefacts, daggers, jewels and dream catchers. There were still all the portraits of the past Headteachers and, joining them in his prime place above the desk, was the kindly face of Albus Dumbledore, blue eyes twinkling over crescent shaped glasses. Hermione's smile was breathless and teary. He folded his fingers, leaned forward slightly, and winked at her.

"Miss Granger."

She spun around, wiping at her face.

"What a pleasant surprise."

Professor McGonagall stood on the dais, ancient book in her arms, green robes as straight and immaculate as always, hat pointed to the sky. She looked older than the woman who had greeted her all those years ago in front of the Great Hall, much older, and tireder too. There were bags under her eyes and more wrinkles in her lips, like she'd shrivelled them one too many times. But she was still her Head of House, and Hermione felt a rush of fondness for the older witch.

"Professor," she said. There was something about seeing her former teacher that brought a tender recollection of normalcy, a reminder she was safe and she was home. Hermione swallowed. "How are you?"

Bemused, McGonagall came down to meet her. She rounded the desk, skirting Fawkes' empty perch, and sat in the chair, motioning for Hermione to do the same. She paused, then sat in the chair opposite her Headmistress.

"As well as ever, Miss Granger." The older woman peered over her glasses and it didn't have quite the same affect as the wizard sitting behind her in his golden frame. Her eyes were too beady, inquisitively sharp, though no less warm. "I was pleased to see your name amongst the returning Eighth Years."

Hermione smiled. Tucked a curl behind her ear. "It's nice to be back. I forgot how much I missed it."

McGonagall hummed. Her eyes softened as they roamed the office, tracing the high alcoves, lingering on the empty perch. "I had hoped it wouldn't feel haunted. We wished it to feel like it used to, like the safest fortress in the world." There was a wistful sigh in her voice.

Hermione winced a little. "It's a difficult feat when you know the fortress was conquered."

"But rebuilt from the rubble," her professor's eyes shone, and Hermione was sure they were tears.

"I'm really grateful to be back, Professor," she said quietly. "I don't know what I would have done otherwise."

McGonagall's lips twisted in a secretive smile. When she spoke, it was so matter-of-factly that her thick Scottish accent clipped each of her words. "I have no doubt you would have taught the Ministry how to deal with the aftermath of war. Kingsley Shacklebolt might be a good Minister, but he can't seem to keep everyone and thing from spilling over. The new world is going to be built on inconsistencies and misfiled paperwork."

Hermione heard the irritability leak into her voice, and she remembered a headline she'd read a few days ago at breakfast:

 **Chaos at the Ministry: Reforms or Revolts?**

"Conservative reactions always follow war. The fear never truly goes away," said Hermione. "If anything, it intensifies. Just think about Grindelwald. As soon as he was defeated, the Ministry had drafted restrictive laws and organised raids that ended up lasting years. The Wizarding World ended up more broken than repaired."

"And in opposition to conservatism, there are the liberals who advocate peace in the chasm," replied McGonagall. She pursed her lips.

Hermione laughed a little. "I think we could do with some peace right about now."

"Miss Granger, I'm inclined to agree with you."

She smiled.

Before she could say anything else, there was a cry and through the window, riding on the setting sun, soared a bird of the most brilliant orange, fire-soaked red, and gold. Hermione wasn't sure she could really believe it. Something light settled in her soul and she thought the last ray of hope might as well have just swept through the sky and landed on the pane.

Fawkes sat proudly on the windowsill.

"I thought-" Hermione stumbled for sense. She couldn't tear her eyes away from him. "I thought he was gone forever."

McGonagall's face softened and she rose from her chair and beckoned him onto his perch. He acquiesced, swooping over and offering the older woman his head to stroke.

Hermione blinked, remembering the last time she had seen him, hearing his final song in her head. She stood from the chair and moved over slowly, careful not to frighten him.

"Not gone," said McGonagall, running her finger over the plumes of the Phoenix's head. "He visits from time to time. Usually, he comes here to die."

Hermione looked at her, lips parted. Her eyes strayed back to the bird, and she held out her hand so he could press his forehead against her knuckle.

"He comes home," a deep voice said, and Hermione jumped. The Phoenix crooned gently. Dumbledore smiled from his portrait above the desk. "It is said, Miss Granger, in my family, that a Phoenix appears when a Dumbledore is in need. Fawkes came to me when I was desperate, when I didn't know how to save myself, never mind anyone else. Extraordinary things, Phoenixes. Exceptionally nuanced and tuned into human emotion."

Hermione watched him. There was something almost pained in his eyes, his fingers clasped together tighter, as if to stop himself from reaching out, knowing he could never breach the gap to greet his old friend. Fawkes cried, ruffling his feathers. A few of them fell to the tray and sparked.

"What do you need, Professor?" asked Hermione. A tear slipped down her cheek. "Perhaps I can help-"

Dumbledore titled his head forward, eyes peering and crinkled. There was so much reassurance in those eyes that Hermione understood why Harry had trusted him so blindly, allowed him to hold his entire life in his wizened, charred hand.

"Miss Granger, you didn't come here to have biscuits and discuss Ministry reforms," was all he said. His lips quirked.

McGonagall was frowning deeply. She tutted. "Albus, what on earth-?"

But before she could chastise the former Headmaster, Fawkes sang a little tune, coaxing her hand open, pressing his head into Hermione's palm. She felt something wet drip down her skin.

Fawkes lifted his head, tipped his beak to the ceiling. The flames engulfed him from the very tips of his wings, stretching up his back and swallowing his narrow head. Orange, then red, reaching up, then dying down until there was nothing but ash and feather-

They stared at the tray.

Hermione took a shaky breath but it stopped in her throat when the ash started to move.

The chick slowly craned it's neck, chirping, and Hermione wiped at her eyes and laughed. Fawkes chirped again.

Dumbledore made a soft noise.

"Born from the ashes," Hermione murmured. Fawkes cooed gently, and tilted his head and fixed her with a surprisingly astute look. Blinking. It was like the bird was staring into her soul and yet- there was a twinkle in those dark eyes that reminded Hermione of the man in the frame. She felt obliged to say, "Professor, what do you know about Draco Malfoy?"

McGonagall looked at her sharply. "Miss Granger?"

"He's waiting for his trial, Professor. He's been accused of accessory to murder, of terrorism. The Ministry thinks he's a criminal but he's- he's an eighteen year old boy. I- I came to see you because I need your help. I need your help in proving he's innocent."

McGonagall shook her head. "Miss Granger, forgive me for my bluntness, but why do you care?"

Hermione inhaled sharply. She grimaced.

"Draco and I, well," she broke off. She didn't know why her face felt so hot. "We've- I suppose we've struck up a sort of friendship. Not really a friendship, more a- civil agreement. I've gotten to know him really quite well, Professor and, well, I'd like to take him to Hogsmeade. I think it would do him good.

"You might think I'm crazy, Professor," said Hermione quickly before the Headmistress could get a word in. "Honestly, I'm wondering a bit myself... But I've seen Draco Malfoy's soul, and it's not black and it's certainly not evil. He's scared. And he needs help."

McGonagall, the woman Hermione had admired as soon as she'd set eyes on her in First Year, pursed her lips and regarded her sharply. Eventually, she said in her curt voice, "What do you propose I do, Miss Granger? I'm not as powerful as Albus Dumbledore. I can't influence the Ministry."

Hermione hurriedly said, "I'm not asking you to! I was simply hoping you could write to ask if Malfoy could have the court's permission to go into Hogsmeade for a few hours. I'll stay with him the whole time and if it makes everyone feel more comfortable, I'll keep him under Harry's cloak. So they don't know he's there. He can't escape either way, he's got a tracker on his ankle. Purely to avoid causing a scene." Hermione paused. She said, in a shakier voice, "I think he needs this, Professor. I think maybe his life might depend on it."

McGonagall's lips had become shrivelled prunes and her eyebrows were furrowed deeply, before she said, "I'll see what can be done, Miss Granger, but I can't promise you anything."

There was a firework, or maybe a rocket, that went off in Hermione's stomach and she just nodded. "Of course, Professor. Thank you."

She turned to leave.

"Miss Granger."

Hermione stopped and looked back.

McGonagall was still stroking the bird, and Fawkes stretched his charred, little wings, craning his neck and preening. His shed feathers were a brilliant orange around him, like the explosion of the sun as it set in the evening, or autumn leaves as the world readied itself for the oncoming winter.

"Yes, Professor?"

"Be careful," she said. Her eyes were clear and sharp.

Hermione swallowed. "Harry told me, a long time ago, that it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be. I was given that liberty. I need to make sure Malfoy is given the same."

McGonagall didn't reply, but her eyes ducked to the desk and her lips quirked slightly. Hermione nodded to herself and left, but she heard the Headmistress sigh float through the walls.

"It's the right thing to do, Minerva," she heard Dumbledore's portrait say.

McGonagall grumbled. "That doesn't mean it will be easy, Albus. You often forget what's feasible."

"Perhaps." Hermione heard the amusement in his voice. "But Miss Granger may be the only one who can save him-"


	12. Running Blood

**Chapter Twelve- Running Blood**

It was three weeks before Hermione heard anything back from Professor McGonagall.

Snow had fallen silently one night and carpeted the grounds ever since, wrapping the shivering trees in their seasonal coats, and forcing the students to wear their thickest cloaks at all times. The winter chill would creep its way into the castle, through the nooks and crannies in the walls, nibbling at exposed flesh, striking goosebumps. Hermione made sure she kept her earmuffs and gloves with her everywhere she went, just in case her fingers started to go numb. Sometimes, they would hurt so much, she couldn't even write her notes in class. Winter had arrived, and it had come with a vengeance.

Throughout it all, however, there was something quiet and serene about it. The Black Lake glistened with a thin sheen of dark ice. Snowmen would pop up between lessons only to be ceremoniously destroyed the day after. Fires crackled in every hearth and there was a buzz in the corridors in the lead-up to Christmas. Hermione wasn't sure she really shared in their excitement. She had nowhere to go. Her parents would be thrilled to see her but she didn't know if she could stomach a skiing holiday to France. Not this year. Harry and Ron still hadn't made their minds up about their plans. There were only four weeks left! It irked her to no end that they were slipshod enough to leave all their preparations till the last minute.

Most likely, Hermione thought, she would stay at Hogwarts. The quiet in the library might do her some good and she was acutely aware that this would be her last Christmas at the castle.

She wasn't sure what Malfoy would do. She wasn't sure if he had a home to go back to, or if the Ministry had seized it and warded it off to raid for their investigation in building a case against the Malfoy's. She wasn't sure what had happened to his mother for he hadn't mentioned her once since their conversation about nightmares and spoon tricks in the kitchen. His father was locked up in Azkaban. There was no point pondering on that charge.

Still, Malfoy didn't say and Hermione didn't ask. They met every week, tried to meet most nights but their workload was increasing and they needed the library more and more. Hermione had half the mind to suggest they just study together, but she knew it would make him draw deeper into himself and the thought of being seen in public with him, and the rumours that would follow, had made her grimace and shut the thought down immediately. Every time she saw his sterile, blond hair through a bookshelf, she would divert her eyes and pretend to be interested in the book above her head.

It wasn't that she was ashamed of him. Hermione was always quick to tell that to herself. It would simply complicate- whatever it was they had.

And sometimes, it was nice to have a secret. Something to keep to herself. Something untouchable.

It was a Wednesday morning. Hermione had been trying to eat breakfast in the Great Hall more often, not least because Ginny kept making pointed comments about putting a tracking spell on her at all times to make sure she was looking after herself. Hermione rolled her eyes but neglected to point out that she only turned up because she had to make sure a certain stubborn Slytherin was looking after _him_ self.

He wasn't at Breakfast. Hermione had noticed as soon as she'd entered the Great Hall. There was a spot next to Blaise Zabini, on the very end of the table, suspiciously empty. She caught Zabini's eye, and he glanced at the space beside him and back at her, raising an eyebrow. She shrugged, turning away, but her heart raced.

"Morning, sleepy head," said Neville, grinning up at her as she slid onto the bench beside him. "How're you feeling?"

"Fine," she replied, filling her plate. "How are you? How's your Herbology project coming along?"

His face lit up. He'd long grown out of the small, timid First Year she had jinxed to keep quiet; his cheeks had hollowed, his hair darkened, his torso lengthening and slimming so he now towered above her. "Great! In fact, Sprout says she might be able to take me on as an apprentice if I get the grades! But don't tell anyone! I don't think she's spoken to McGonagall about it yet."

Hermione beamed at him. "Neville, that's incredible!"

He still blushed like a First Year.

Hermione felt a little bit more rejuvenated after learning that. There was truly nobody who deserved it more but she couldn't help but wonder why life was rushing and organising itself for everybody else, but crawling by for her. Harry and Ron already had their futures lined up for them. Ginny was looking to be scouted straight after Hogwarts for some Quidditch team or another. Everything seemed to be falling into place but Hermione could only see a chasm ahead of her, an empty space she had no idea how to fill, never mind what with. As a child, she always assumed she'd become a teacher, but part of her longed to get out of her childhood, to escape the repetitiveness and triviality of regurgitating a book; Defence lost its appeal when she'd been forced to rely on it to save her life. Maybe something political, something that could change the world. But British politics was a mess. How much change could one person make?

She was just buttering her toast when the owl swooped from overhead, clutching a bulky package. It dropped the parcel onto her lap, but didn't have time to slow down and clattered to a stop further along the table, sending goblets of juice spilling onto people's plates. Neville's beans were flooded with Pumpkin juice.

Hermione flashed him an apologetic smile, coaxing the clumsy thing closer and offering it her crust. It nipped her finger slightly.

When it was distracted, she tucked the package closer onto her lap, and quickly pulled the scroll from its leg. She threw the last bit of crust along the table when the bird squawked at her. There was no majesty to the owl and its feathers were all ruffled and flattened. It had the look of a wild and senile thing, with cloudy grey eyes. She didn't recognise it. Hermione pulled the string and unfurled the parchment. The smile pulled at her lips before she could stop it.

 _Hermione,_

 _Does this mean you're getting up to mischief without us?_

 _It is with heavy heart that I send the Map. When I couldn't concentrate, I would pull it out and watch you pace from one side of the library to the next. I swear I could hear your ranting through the paper._

 _I miss you._

 _Harry x_

 _PS: Ron says he loves you but you need to stop eating in the kitchens. Apparently they don't have all the good puddings down there and only keep the leftovers. I think that's his way of telling you to eat properly and look after yourself. Sometimes, he'd watch the Map with me too._

She laughed a little, smothering it with her hand. She closed her eyes and a tear leaked out. Hermione clutched the package closer to her. She could feel the sharp corners of the Map and felt a rush of remembrance for her friends. The owl must've been a Ministry one.

"He's got a point, you know."

Hermione glanced up and noticed Ginny had sidled her way closer. She offered her a smile.

"As much as my idiotic older brother lacks sense, he sometimes manages to hit the nail on the head," continued Ginny, grabbing an apple. It was as red as her hair.

"You're cruel," Hermione laughed.

Ginny grinned and some juice trickled down her chin. "It's not cruel if it's true."

"That's not how it works!"

"He really does have a point," said Ginny, ignoring her. "They hardly keep any puddings in the kitchen. House Elves don't really have a sweet tooth."

Hermione looked at her friend knowingly. "Ginny, I'm fine. I eat every meal and go to sleep at an appropriate time. I even slept in this morning!"

There was only a smidge of sarcasm in her voice and Ginny narrowed her eyes. She tried to look threatening but Hermione found very few things terrifying nowadays.

"I'm joking, Ginevra," she said, nudging her shoulder. "But I _am_ fine. I think I've got back into the swing of things."

Ginny hummed but her scowl never softened. She said loftily, "And it's got nothing to do with the mystery person you're meeting on an evening?"

She'd asked her question just as Hermione had gone for a swig of her drink and she choked a little. "I'm sorry," she said, wiping her mouth. " _What?_ Who-? I don't know _what_ you're talking about."

Ginny snorted. "Harry isn't the only one spying, you know. When you kept disappearing, I owled him to ask if he could use the Map. He said you disappeared from the Map entirely. Every day at the same time, more or less. The only place that isn't on the Map is the Room of Requirement, and the only reason you'd sneak off- and lie about it, might I add- to a place that can't be physically or magically traced is because you were meeting someone you don't want me to know about."

Ginny smiled brightly and took another bite of her apple. Hermione gaped then shook her head, prepared to deny it, then closed her mouth because she realised she looked like a fish. In the end, she just shot her friend a glare and muttered, "You're much too sly for your own good."

Ginny's smile widened. "So I'm right?"

Hermione winced. "Yes but-"

"Oh don't worry," Ginny leaned away, finishing her apple. "I'm not going to pry any further. You'll end up telling me eventually."

Hermione wondered whether she was right. She shoved the package containing the Map and cloak in her bag and pretended not to hear her.

The morning post had come and gone by the time the last owl soared through the open window. It was the polar opposite of the Ministry bird the boys had used. There was an elegance in the strong wing span and sharp eye, and it circled once above before dropping down and landing in front of her. No goblets were toppled. It offered her its leg and Hermione slipped the parchment from the string. The eagle owl didn't wait around for a reward but took off, disappearing out through the same window it had swept in by.

Hermione's heart was beating so hard in her chest she thought it might break through and follow the bird into the sky. She quickly excused herself, grabbing her bag and barely registering Ginny's confused questioning. There was some part of her that knew what the letter was, and if the way the eagle owl had circled the teachers' table was anything to go by, she knew who it was from.

Sure enough, when Hermione found an empty corridor, she opened the letter:

 _Miss Granger,_

 _I have had to fight quite diligently and ferociously but the Ministry have agreed to the terms. They also have a few of their own; they state that he cannot be out for any longer than three hours, within daylight. Failure to be reported back in Hogwarts by the required time will result in immediate transfer to Azkaban Prison._

 _Whilst seeming harsh, they are far more reasonable terms than I anticipated._

 _On the day of your choosing, report to me in the morning and I will modify the Ministry band._

 _Yours,_

 _M. McGonagall_

Hermione read it again. She read it three times. Four. Five only when she realised she'd stopped breathing.

She'd done it. An astounded laugh forced its way from her throat. It struck her that she needed to find Malfoy.

She knew exactly where he'd be.

Not a moment later, Hermine bounded onto the seventh floor corridor, using the bannister of the moving staircase to haul her on faster, just before it dislodged and started to move again. She didn't have time to pace three times, practically sprinting back and forth, that by the time she tumbled into the Room, her chest was heaving.

Malfoy was sitting on the green leather settee, book in hand, legs propped up on the coffee table. He glanced over the top of his page. Raised an eyebrow.

"Did you run here?"

Hermione had to stop and breathe. The letter was clenched in her fist. She doubled over, panting, pulling a face at the condescension in his voice. _"No."_

Malfoy pursed his lips. "Merlin only knows how you survived on the run, Granger."

He turned back to his book.

Hermione just gaped at him. _The ungrateful sod-_

She moved quickly again, and with purpose, pushing his feet off the table so she could stand directly in front of him. He spluttered his indignation and looked up at her.

"Granger," he said, deadpan. Her name was laced with tension. "Why are you acting like a mad woman?"

Wordlessly, she held the letter out for him. Malfoy kept his eyes on her. "What's this?"

"Read it and find out," replied Hermione, wiggling it a little.

He held her gaze for a second longer, before reaching for the parchment and unfolding it. She watched his eyes skim the page. His face flickered then shut down completely.

Malfoy looked back at her. "I'll ask again, what's this?"

Hermione inhaled deeply, suppressing her smile but she was sure it shone from her lips regardless. She said, "After our conversation a few weeks ago, about Hogsmeade, I went to see McGonagall and told her that I thought it would help if-"

"Help what?" His eyes were still fixed on her but there was a chord in his neck that made her falter.

"Help- well, help you," she said lamely.

Malfoy stood abruptly, shoving the letter in her hand, and began walking towards the door. Hermione frowned.

"Draco-?"

He whirled on her. "I don't need your fucking help, Granger!"

He was nearly at the door but he stormed towards her; the fire died in the hearth, blown out, the walls seemed to shrink, Hermione took an instinctive step backwards, hitting the arm of the chair. Malfoy was a breath away from her. His eyes were wide, that sliver of blue around his iris darkening, nostrils flaring, lips pink and split.

"I do not need your help. Are you listening? I put up with your company, Granger. I've let you see me _cry_ and _break_ \- but I am not one of your sad, pity cases. I refuse to be, Granger."

She felt every hot, spitting syllable on her cheeks. She felt the warmth of his body close to hers. She wanted to push him away but she didn't think he'd come back if he walked out that door.

Hermione forced herself to swallow and keep her eyes on him. The chair arm was digging into the back of her thighs. "Draco," she breathed. "That's not how I meant it."

It was like he remembered who he was, and he rolled his shoulders back. He didn't move away and Hermione glanced down at the little space between them. She could feel his knees in her thighs, his sharp hips, the flat plane of his chest. She put a hand on his arm to gently make some room.

"When we were on the run," she began, licking her cracked lips. His eyes flicked down to follow the action, then fixed back on her eyes. "We camped out in places I'd visited with my parents; forests, villages, maybe places I'd been on school trips. At every location, I'd put up as many wards as I knew, around the tent, around the perimeter. We started the three of us but the Horcrux in the locket drove Ron to walking out, so it was just Harry and I for a while. It was the most trapped I've ever been. We couldn't leave, we couldn't even go a metre from the tent. I felt like I was suffocating slowly. I know what it's like to be trapped, Draco. I didn't want you to feel like you couldn't breathe, knowing there was something I could do to help."

He stared at her for a very long time. Her hand was still on his chest and he reached up, tentatively, to hold her arm. Hermione flinched. Nobody ever touched her there. His fingers were cold over the cuts his aunt had carved into her flesh.

She licked her lips again and this time, his eyes didn't flick back up to hers. Hermione swallowed.

"You have to wear the cloak," she said quietly. "Harry's invisibility cloak, that is. And stay with me for the three hours. So it's not too bad, not really. Not unless you're adverse to my company..."

Malfoy stared at her lips. He was still so close to her. She could feel every one of his breaths, from the moment it was born in his chest to when it died in the sigh between them.

"What do you say?"

She tilted her head when he didn't reply.

"Draco?"

He reached up suddenly and wiped at her lip with the pad of his thumb. Hermione froze. Her palm was still splayed across his chest and his hand was holding her, touching her skin, touching the place she'd been branded a-

He pulled his thumb away and she saw it was speckled with her blood.

"Have you always bitten your lip raw?" asked Malfoy. She hadn't even realised she'd been chewing her bottom lip and they both stared at the blood. It was a deep red, only a drop.

Hermione winced. "Only when I'm nervous."

He looked at her then, something amused, confused and carefully veiled in the furrow of his eyebrows. "I make you nervous?"

She watched him unsurely. Tried to chuckle. "You've always made me nervous. I used to punch you but I can't very well do that now."

"No," he agreed. "Now, you try to help me."

"You say that like its worse."

"It might be." He paused. His voice was little more than a murmur. "Why are you nervous, Hermione?"

She didn't take her eyes off of him.

 _Because I'm not sure I can help you._

Hermione leaned in close and he gave away his surprise in the way his eyes widened fractionally, and he leaned back. "What if I lose you in Hogsmeade and you run away to the Shrieking Shack and become a fugitive? They might think I'm complicit."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed slightly and he dropped his hand, wiping his thumb, her blood, on his shirt. He finally moved away, retrieving his book which he'd dropped on the settee. Hermione still hadn't moved from the chair arm when he said, "Granger, you became complicit the moment you asked me if I was okay."

She didn't point out to him that she became invested long before then. Her arm was still warm, burning, where he'd touched her and her lip was salty with blood.

 **AN: I think this is really the most intimate they've ever gotten which is strange to say it's a Dramione fic, 12 chapters in. I hope you all love a slow burn! I do love this dynamic. It's reminding me of Avery x Hermione in The Light, which was just a DREAM to write. Up and down, sensitive to even the slightest bit of tension or change. I never know what turns and twists each chapter is going to take. It is a joy. AS IS receiving your reviews and lovely comments! They absolutely make my day and I can never, ever express my gratitude to you all for believing in me and my writing, for sticking with me despite the hiatuses, for never failing to make me smile. Thank you. Next chapter: HOGSMEADE!**


	13. Milk with an Expiry Date of Three Hours

**Chapter Thirteen- Milk with an Expiry Date of Three Hours**

They walked along the corridor in silence. Hermione patted the bag at her side, feeling reassurance in the cushion of the cloak and slight rustle the Map made. It hadn't been one of the terms (she doubted McGonagall, nor the Ministry, even knew of its existence) but it made her feel better to know they were safe, rather than sorry, that she could whip it out at any moment and conserve their secret for just a little bit longer. Her conversation with Ginny had been playing on her mind. If the girl had been spying on her, had seen her disappear off the Map, had she also seen Malfoy disappear too? Had she connected the dots, whatever those dots were? Somehow, for some reason, Hermione figured they were undetected, not least because she didn't think Ginny had the kind of temperament that would put up with her best friend meeting a former Death Eater, who also happened to be awaiting his trial for murder and terrorism, in an intracable room every night. She supposed the absurdity of the situation was an advantage after all. The moment they were discovered, all hell would break loose.

Malfoy stopped suddenly and Hermione nearly walked into the back of him.

"Draco, what-?"

He swallowed. "Is this a good idea, Granger?"

Hermione blinked at him. Her thoughts trailed off. "What?"

Malfoy sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was dressed in black slacks and a black trench coat, dark green scarf tucked around his neck. She knew she must look like a child next to him, with her pink duffle coat, white bobble hat and matching mittens. An eyebrow raised when he'd seen her coming towards him that morning, and Hermione's cheeks had momentarily flushed as bright as her coat. He looked like the Malfoy she knew, the one who cared for his appearance, with every strand of hair falling back into place on his head. Hermione almost hadn't the heart to remind him he'd be invisible for the duration of their trip to Hogsmeade.

"What if someone sees me?" he asked.

"The Cloak isn't as fickle as a simple charm," she said. "It's highly unlikely."

Malfoy nodded. It was too rushed, too harried that she didn't think he had really heard her.

Hermione moved in front of him and, before she could overthink it, took his hand in hers. They were both wearing gloves but Malfoy lurched as though she'd scorched him. She didn't let go. "If you don't want to go, we can go to the Room instead. It's meant to be liberating, not another form of entrapment."

Malfoy looked at her. His eyes were wide. After a moment, he shook his head slightly, detangling their hands and said, "You're right. Besides, I could do with a Firewhiskey."

He carried on walking and Hermione started at his sudden pace, skipping a little to catch back up with him. She rolled her eyes when they finally fell back into step and said, "Would it really have killed you to just leave it at, 'You're right'?"

There was a ghost of his old smirk playing at his lips, and Hermione pondered on the fact that it filled her with a warmth she never would have assumed it could. Hogwarts was empty. Not another student passed them by, most playing out in the snow or having already made their way down to Hogsmeade after breakfast earlier that morning. Each empty corridor they made it down added to the relief she felt lighten her chest. They continued until they reached the Headmistress' office.

Hermione cleared her throat, hugging her bag to her body, and announced, "Rhubarb and Custard."

The stone gargoyle leapt to the side and one by one, the bricks behind him cracked and shifted, raining dust, before the entire wall was slowly rotated to reveal the ascending staircase. She glanced at Malfoy.

"Rhubarb and-?" He began, nonplussed.

Hermione couldn't stifle her grin. "It's a Muggle sweet," she explained. "I'll buy you some one day."

Malfoy said nothing so she began to climb the staircase, motioning for him to follow her. When they reached the top, she paused and she saw Malfoy steal a breath. She let him steal another before she knocked.

"Come in."

The two entered.

McGonagall sat at her desk, marking what looked like a particularly horrifically sized pile of Transfiguration essays. Hermione noticed the perch beside her was empty. Glancing up at them, over the rims of her spectacles, the Headmistress greeted them. "Ah, Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy."

"Good morning, Professor." Hermione allowed her eyes to flick to the frame overlooking the desk, only to find it empty too. She quenched any disappointment she might've felt.

"I trust you remember the terms," asked McGonagall, sharp and beady eyes fixed on them both as she stood and made her way closer.

Hermione nodded. She patted her bag. "I have the Cloak."

"Three hours," McGonagall reminded. She stopped in front of Malfoy, who couldn't even look her in the eye. "Mr Malfoy, if you could show me the band."

Her voice was softer than it had been a moment ago, though not considerably so, not enough for him to notice. Hermione had warned her he didn't take well to pity. McGonagall had made a laugh, at the back of her throat, and said he had nothing to worry about from her, that the Scottish were adverse to the stuff.

Malfoy gulped and his hand shook (though they all pretended not to notice) as he lifted his trouser leg. The band was a thin loop of magic, encased in black so as to be untouchable, though Hermione doubted anyone would ever touch it willingly. It shivered with the tension and capacity of undulated magic, sparking out then recoiling as it hit its own prison. Hermione wondered what spell it was, what made it so volatile and if it was inclined to changing spirit for whatever reasons. Did it reflect Malfoy's mood? Or was it just violent to remind the wearer what was coming?

McGonagall didn't so much as falter. Unfazed, she knelt down and said, "Hold very still, Mr Malfoy. Permissionary spells are complex magic."

Hermione frowned. "Permissionary spells, Professor?"

Malfoy shot her a look, preceded by a slight roll of his eyes. He murmured, "You really couldn't help yourself, could you, Granger?"

She had half the mind to shove him just to see what happened when the spell went wrong.

McGonagall ignored the pair of them. "Spells that have been individually designed and placed and therefore unable to be modified by anyone else, without the original castor's explicit permission. Fortunately, I knew the Wizengamot Witch who cast this specific spell. She, how do you children say it, owed me one."

Without another word, McGonagall raised her wand and started muttering. The magic dripped from the end of her wand, orange and voracious, before tentatively groping towards Malfoy's band. Hermione could see every chord in his body tighten in an effort to keep still. She wondered if a body bind hex wouldn't have been more effective.

Whatever the Headmistress was doing, it was working. Slowly, her fiery, orange magic was absorbed by the band, sinking into the blue light, mixing with it, then replacing it, diving around his ankle, stretching out until it pulsed. The band changed colour from black, staining to a grey. Temporarily freeing him.

Malfoy exhaled shakily, almost like he felt it. Tasted it on the air perhaps. Freedom.

But only for three hours.

McGonagall stood. She straightened her robes and pointed her hat and said, "I'll be notified when you return back on Hogwarts grounds. I'll need you to come to me so I can change it back so as to not alarm the Wizengamot." Pausing, she fixed him with a curt but gentle smile. "Enjoy your day in Hogsmeade, Mr Malfoy."

Malfoy didn't seem to know what to do. He floundered for a second, before Hermione stepped in and said, "Thank you, Professor. We will."

The sound of her voice seemed to wrench him back into reality and he nodded. "Yes. Thank you, Professor, I-"

But he choked on the words, and McGonagall must've known what he was going to say anyway for when she waved them on and told them they'd better not waste any more time in the castle, there was a thickness in her voice.

They left the office, descending the stairs, and the gargoyle jumped back into place behind them as soon as they stumbled out onto the corridor. Hermione looked at Malfoy. He raised an eyebrow.

"How does freedom taste?"

"Like warm milk with an expiry date of three hours."

"What an apt analogy," she said dryly.

Hermione wasted no time in opening her bag and hauling out the Cloak. It was unbelievably soft under her fingers, smelling of adventure and danger and the thrill of curfew. She had to stop herself from inhaling it because she knew the look Malfoy would give her and could almost hear his refusal to wear anything that smelt even remotely of 'Potter.'

She handed it to him. "You don't have to put it on yet, but better to get it out now whilst no one is here."

Malfoy nodded, taking the Cloak from her. He ran his fingers over it, and though he tried desperately to hide it from her, Hermione glimpsed the flash of awe in his eyes.

"Where did he get this?" Malfoy asked. He couldn't tamper the breathlessness in his voice either.

Hermione shrugged and started walking, knowing he'd follow her and catch up if she did. "Family heirloom. Some people get the Chamber of Secrets, Harry inherited an Invisibility Cloak."

Although much more concentrated on where he was going, Malfoy's fingers still ran idly over the material bunched in his hands. Cautiously. Delicately. As if it could pull apart at any moment. "You know," he said. "Whenever my mother used to read The Tale of the Three Brothers to me, I always used to think that I'd want the Cloak. Never mind the Wand, or the Stone. I always saw value in the Cloak."

Hermione didn't look at him. It was rare when he spoke about anything even relatively personal that she daren't be too bold, just in case he shut down on her. "How so?"

She felt his eyes flick to her. "The idea of disappearing was very appealing to me. To be able to escape anything, even Death. I thought that was the ultimate display of power."

"It can be Summoned," said Hermione instantly. She didn't know why it was so important that she said it. Malfoy looked at her properly now. "The Cloak. You can use Accio on it. So you can't use it to escape anything in reality, not really."

Malfoy's voice gave way to his sneer. "Don't worry, Granger. I'm not going to do a runner on you. It's just a fairytale."

She glanced sideways at him. He was staring stonily ahead. Biting back a wince, she hastened to say, "I agree with you though. The Cloak is the only one even remotely useful."

Malfoy frowned. Hook. Hermione knew she'd poked at his intellectual curiosity, all but inviting a debate. Line. She waited for him to take the bait.

It was a moment before he replied.

"What do you mean?"

And sinker.

"Well," she said, as they turned right onto the moving staircase. Her hand clutched the bannister in case it decided to be temperamental and move at the last minute. "The Wand was fallible. Not only could it be taken from you, but it marked out a great, big, flashing target on your back. You were asking for Death, being the Master of the Elder Wand. Look what happened to Grindelwald. Look what happened to Snape."

She forgot about his affinity with their old Potions Master and felt a twinge of regret when she saw him wince. Hermione continued quickly, "Harry had the Stone for a while, you know. He used it. To see his parents. That was shortly before Voldemort killed him."

From his quick bursting reactions, she could tell her frankness affected him but there was no point skirting around the issue at hand. This was why he liked the Cloak, thought Hermione, so he could dig his head in the sand when things got honest.

"He told me about it afterwards and I've thought about it a lot. He said they coaxed him to die, told him it was 'quicker and easier than falling asleep.' That doesn't sound like something your family would say now, does it? I came to a conclusion, well, no, it's nothing more than a theory, really, and based on little to no practical evidence-"

He coughed and she shut up and refocused.

"But anyway- I wondered if the Stone didn't just supply a manifestation of the dead channelling Death's voice. His whole purpose of creating the Stone was to entice the Second Brother to him. I think the Stone is merely a facade, Death trying to persuade you to kill yourself so he doesn't have to do it himself. The ultimate victory.

"So by default, and when you consider it was the only successful Hallow insofar as allowing the Third Brother to die on his own terms, the Cloak has to come out on top."

"Granger." In all honesty, Hermione had almost forgotten he was there. They'd made it to the foyer now, and the Great doors were cracked open slightly, spilling a smidge of light onto the stone floor, but largely combatting the wintry world outside. She turned to look at him. Though deadpan, Hermione saw the quirk of his lips. "Congratulations. You just sucked all of the fun out of my childhood."

Her mouth dropped open and she smacked him. He leapt away, incensed.

"Granger! You're not a bloody cat! Stop swiping me!"

She did so but not because he asked. "Put the Cloak on, Ferret. Then I don't have to see your stupid grin."

Malfoy recoiled and whatever amusement had curled his lips dropped. His eye twitched. "Don't call me that, Granger," he said darkly.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Or what?"

He didn't reply, draping the Cloak around himself and disappearing in an instant. She swallowed nervously. "Draco?"

Suddenly, her scarf was yanked and wrapped repeatedly around her neck and her hat was wrenched down over her eyes. The shriek that left her lips was small and frustrated. Though she couldn't see him, she heard his sniggering and located a damn good kick to what she guessed was his shin by his excessive use of expletives.

"Serves you right," said Hermione smugly. "Now come on, your three hours will be up before they've even started."

Malfoy kept quiet at that but she had no doubt that he was simply cursing her under his breath now, instead. She pushed open the castle doors and they were enveloped in light.


	14. Granger

**Chapter Fourteen- Granger**

It seemed to be a habit of theirs but they walked quietly, trekking their way down the well-worn and thus, rather slippery slope, down across the grounds. Though she was wearing her winter boots, Hermione kept losing her footing, clutching onto the tufts of frozen grass and muttering high-pitched pleas to whatever entity was listening. It was made all the worse for the snowballs that occasionally pistoled towards them and she had no time nor security to find her wand and shield them both from attack. One came hurtling at her head and she screamed, ducking, her feet taken from underneath her as the dirt crumbled away, grappling for purchase, for something to cling onto-

"Fuck. Granger! Will you-!" she heard Malfoy grumble, his breath hot on her forehead, but she knew her hold on him was firm and she hadn't stopped skidding and was therefore unwilling to let go. Hermione felt something haul her to her feet and she gripped at thin air. It was only when she was firmly planted back on flat ground that she released his arm, muttering a reluctant thank you and they continued on their way. Hermione, more cautiously than before.

She couldn't see him but she was certain that Malfoy stopped for a moment when they reached the Hogwarts gates. Hermione heard a sharp intake of breath, though it could have been the wind whistling through her hair. Either way, she didn't comment, and carried on walking, sneakily glancing behind her, watching his footsteps in the snow, to make sure he was following. There was something reassuring about the fleeting trail they created, and the way the snow would kiss the imprints to cover them over.

The walk down to the village seemed quicker than she imagined, though Hermione had a feeling that time would sprint today, for it was usually what time did when one wanted it to do quite the opposite. Even against the onslaught of wind that chilled her to her bones and the snow that flecked her cheeks and congealed on her eyelashes, there was something warm that bloomed in her chest; Hogsmeade was everything she remembered it to be, and more. As they got closer, the snow gave way to an emerging row of white-wrapped buildings; the roofs overhung, their mismatched brickwork tucked away under a blanket of winter for as long as the snow persisted, golden walls rarely peeking out if any of the snow collapsed from the windowpanes and flower baskets. Hanging signs danced wildly in the wind, clanging and creaking, revealing the odd letter or emblem. Students and villagers, protected by their winter robes, hats and scarfs, weaved in and out of shops, whose doors would fling open and spill a puddle of enticing heat onto the frost-bitten ground. A well-trodden path snaked deeper into the village, though snowflakes continued to fall, smoothing it over with fresh powdery mounds that the students were all too happy to jump in.

Hermione breathed in the cold air. It had been so long since she'd felt that familiar warmth of normalcy, but it embraced her now, that sobering blast of freedom. She hadn't realised she'd stopped walking completely until she heard Malfoy hiss her name.

"Oh. Sorry."

Hermione led him through the village, breathing in the smell of roast potatoes from The Three Broomsticks, distracted by the laughter and sparks and whizzing bolts of light from the joke shop, not stopping until they'd made it past every shop on the main street and had weaved their way past darkened windows and boarded up doors, falling into the empty shelter of The Hog's Head pub.

She heard Malfoy make a derisive noise but ignored him, smiling at the barkeep (who was certainly not Aberforth, what with his perspiring bald head and bulbous moustache, pipe poking from between the gaps in his teeth), and making her way to a table in the corner. Hermione sat down, biting back a smirk at the hesitant and inconspicuous scraping of the chair opposite her as it was pulled out and drawn in again.

"Interesting venue," he remarked under his breath.

"There's method in my madness, Malfoy," muttered Hermione.

She could hear the smirk in his voice. "Isn't there always, Granger?"

Hermione chose not to comment, slipping her wand from out her bag and murmuring the warding spells she'd used whilst on the run. There weren't many other patrons in the pub; two older gentlemen in roughened leather coats were playing cards and gambling for a considerable amount of money if the pile between them was anything to go by, a woman with deep wrinkles seemed to be having tea with her cat, and a bunch of Seventh Years, their ties multi-coloured, their heads down, looked like they were studying for their Christmas mock NEWTS.

Her eyes flicked away from them all, and she could feel her hair starting to frizz, the magic ebbing from her and making the air around them pulse, surrounding them in a bubble. She only lowered her wand when the bubble muffled out the sound of everything else and she momentarily felt like she'd been submerged entirely underwater.

Hermione turned back. "You can take the Cloak off now."

Silence. Then, a whispered, _"What?"_

"Take the Cloak off."

"Granger-"

"I've warded this corner. No one can see us," she said. Then looked at him demandingly. "Why do you think I chose this pub over The Three Broomsticks? It certainly wasn't on principle of design. There are less people here who can pick up on my magical signature. They probably don't even recognise half the wards I've used."

He didn't react immediately and Hermione continued to stare into empty space when-

Malfoy appeared suddenly. His hair was tussled and half his shoulder was still missing and it was a minute later that he combed his fingers through his hair and pulled the Cloak the rest of the way off. His cheeks were pink. He swallowed.

Hermione waited as his eyes roved the pub. She knew it was dingy and the floorboards were curving upwards and the wooden panelling on the walls was falling off, but the circular table she'd chosen was just behind the table next to the window (she didn't want to risk sitting too closely) and she'd made sure she was sitting with her back to the rest of Hogsmeade so that Malfoy could watch the world pass by over her head and feel a part of the way the snow fell.

Sure enough, his eyes snagged just past her and he watched the way life drifted by through the window. Hermione let him have it. She stood and his eyes barely flicked to her when she said, "I'll get us some drinks," before he nodded once and they flicked back again.

Hermione slipped away, leaning against the bar then recoiling when she felt something sticky on her arm. She flashed a hasty grin at the barkeep and said, "A Butterbeer and a Firewhiskey, please."

He raised an eyebrow.

She smiled guiltily at him, cheeks flushing. "It's been a long week."

The barkeep huffed, chewing on his pipe, which lit itself and started to puff. He nevertheless accepted her money and got to work on her order. Returning to their table a few minutes later, she placed the drinks on the coasters, noticing that her sudden appearance seemed to wrench Malfoy from whatever had so transfixed his attention.

"Thanks," he said, taking a swig, and he didn't even wince.

Hermione grimaced, wrapping her hands around her glass. "I don't know how you can drink that stuff."

"You grow numb to it."

She sipped her drink. "That sounds healthy."

Malfoy snorted. "Don't lecture me, Granger."

He stopped then, rummaging around in his pocket. The chill from outside had snaked its way into the pub, and they kept their coats buttoned up to their chins, though they'd removed everything else. Malfoy dropped some coins on the table. Hermione blinked.

"What's this?"

"I'm not a Weasley," he sneered. "I can afford to buy my own drinks."

Her eye twitched but she pursed her lips, pushing the galleons back to him. "Will you _stop_ being so offended at everything! Let me buy you a drink."

Malfoy stared at her. After a moment, as Hermione sipped her Butterbeer to show him it wasn't up for debate, he cupped the coins back up and slid them into his pocket. "The next one is on me then, Granger."

"Very well. I'll hold you to that." She put her glass back down on its coaster, licking her lips. Malfoy snorted. "What?"

He kept quiet, eyebrows raised, eyes dancing.

Reproachfully, Hermione demanded, "What are you giggling at?"

Malfoy was full-on grinning, and she forgot her frustration with him just for a moment because he looked so different, so carefree, almost happy. He traced his upper lip and she scrambled to wipe her sleeve across her face. Her ears went red.

"You've missed a spot," said Malfoy, and his voice was light with his mirth. He reached over the table and wiped the foam from the corner of her lip, then on his jacket.

"Thanks."

She watched him curiously, her mortification dying down, as he continued to stare out the window, swigging his whiskey every now and then. She watched the snow fall in his eyes and melt in his hair. It was a situation she never thought she'd find herself in, sitting, having a drink with the boy who had tormented her for years. They'd both been in a war, though you wouldn't know it, looking at them. Hermione's hands were clean and small. There were no scars snaking between her fingers. She was sleeping and eating a little bit better recently so she knew she didn't look haunted; she recognised herself in the mirror again. Draco looked whole, too. His skin was perfect alabaster, carved like stone, like a sculptor had painstakingly shaved the curvature of his throat and jaw to create just the perfect amount of shadow. If he was a statue, Draco Malfoy was a colossal monument of carefully crafted lines and sinews, impassive and cold, and he was full, fit to bursting inside-out, with colourful, burning feeling. Hermione had seen it. He was not as cold as he made himself out to be.

Malfoy frowned at her, then said, "To say you're the one who forces your company on me-"

She jumped at the sudden sound of his voice, and some of her Butterbeer sloshed over the side of the sup, and snorted. " _Forces!_ "

He ignored her. "You sure do look at me with some contempt, Granger."

Hermione pressed her lips into a line, and her eyes dropped to her hands. She folded her fingers together on the table.

"I _don't_ -"

"You look at me like you don't recognise me," he said.

She forced herself to look him in the eye because he deserved her honesty. He was staring at her, grey eyes piercing.

"You're a very different person to the one that Moody turned into a ferret." Hermione paused, then added, "Deservedly so, by the way."

Malfoy made a disdainful noise, slapping the comment away with a flick of his wrist. He levelled his gaze on her suddenly. It made her shift in her seat, but she tilted her chin just a little higher and met him straight on. Malfoy took a swig of his drink.

"Am I still annoyingly charming?"

The dryness of his voice made Hermione flounder for a second, because the joke was so misplaced. She huffed out a laugh.

"You got the annoying part right."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "I'm wounded," he said. Another swig. "You're not so charming yourself, you know, Granger."

"And yet you keep coming back."

A single fine eyebrow raised. The bottle froze between the table and his lips.

"Curiosity."

"Killed the cat."

"But satisfaction brought it back," he countered, and there was a ghost of a smirk that made her stop. She couldn't hold back a small smile of her own.

"You don't ever seem to be overly satisfied with my company," said Hermione. She felt betrayed at the smidge of hurt in her voice.

Malfoy's smirk dropped frighteningly quickly and she felt her stomach sink. He downed some more of his Firewhiskey. Grimacing, he slammed the bottle down on the table and said, "Anything is a step up from my father, Granger, even you."

"Have you seen him?" she asked. "Since the war."

Malfoy shifted in his seat, regarding his drink curiously. His tongue flicked out nervously. "Once."

Hermione swallowed, nodding slowly. She didn't want to pry but part of her was burning up to ask-

"It was just after he got his sentence," Malfoy continued, eyeing her as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. She kept his gaze and he seemed to cling onto the resolute look in her eyes. There was no pity there. She made sure of it. "My mother was still waiting for her trial. We were allowed to watch. The Wizengamot took three minutes. Three. That's all my father's life was worth before they sentenced him. We were allowed to say goodbye and I haven't seen him since."

Hermione was desperate to ask about his mother but she sealed her lips closed. His voice had broken upon simply saying the word.

She owed him some honesty now. She drew in the form of her Butterbeer. "Remember what I told you about my parents?" she asked. Malfoy nodded once. "I Obliviated them the day after I returned from my Sixth Year. I knew they wouldn't be safe after Dumbledore-" He flinched. She stopped. "But I wanted one more day with them. To say goodbye. We didn't do anything special, we just sat together and watched the telly that night and then the following morning I stood outside the door and listened to them. They bickered about using the same spoon for my mum's tea that my dad used for his coffee, and something on the news, and what to add to the practise." Hermione closed her eyes for a moment. "I couldn't say goodbye. Not properly. I knew I'd lose my nerve. So I erased myself from their memories and sent them off to Australia. They'd always wanted to go to Sydney. They planned on moving there, a long time ago, but then I was born and, I suppose life got in the way. There was never a right moment after that."

Malfoy was staring at her. "I never knew before-"

She smiled ruefully. "That was the point."

"Have you tried to find them?" he asked.

Hermione shook her head and her curls whipped her cheeks. "I haven't had time." She let out a derisive laugh. "That makes me sound awful, doesn't it?"

Malfoy's gaze dropped to the table. "No," he said. "Life gets in the way, sometimes."

He offered her a small smile. Hermione returned it.

"How bizarre," she said, "that this is probably the most at peace I've felt in years."

There was a smirk blossoming in the corner of Malfoy's lips, growing and twining so as to encompass his entire face, flowering in his eyes. "In a dingy old pub, in the company of a Death Eater who you hate, my, Granger, you must have had some shitty years."

Hermione knew he was joking but she could only stare at him. Puzzled, she said, "I don't hate you."

Malfoy's smirk froze. He became, quite suddenly, very interested in his drink. His silence prickled her.

"Do you think I hate you?"

He didn't reply straight away. Then, he said, without looking at her, "I didn't want to assume."

"Draco, when I brought you to the Hospital Wing, I sat with you all night. You must know that. You asked if I was staying and when I said yes, it wasn't just so you wouldn't throw up your medicine. I meant I was staying for it all. For now, for later, for your trial. Until you tell me to leave, and even then, you'll have a hard time getting rid of me. Trust me, Malfoy, I'm not easy to get rid of-"

"Call me Draco," he said. Malfoy looked at her. His eyes were light and bright and blue. "I prefer it when you call me by my name."

Hermione gaped. She closed her mouth and nodded. "Okay."

A few moments later, she added, "You can call me Hermione. If you'd like."

Malfoy started to reply then paused. His eyes flicked to hers. "You're Granger to me," he said finally, and it didn't leave her disappointed like she thought it would. Instead, it made her smile.

They finished their drinks soon after, draining them and savouring the last drop. Hermione noticed Malfoy took his time, taking small sips, holding it in his mouth before swallowing, sometimes. She wondered if he was allowed to drink alcohol. Probably not, but this was his three hours of freedom. He had not expired yet. So the idea of breaking the law worried her considerably less than she would have thought.

Hermione checked her watch and when she saw the time, she felt her heart clench a little. "We should probably get going," she told him, knowing her voice was far too chirpy and trying not to cringe at the sound of it. He didn't outwardly react, but she suspected he was deflating inside.

As they got up to leave, Hermione left a few coins on the table, catching Malfoy's frown. She scowled at him. "What?"

"What are you doing?" he asked, lip curling.

"I'm leaving a tip!"

"He didn't do anything, Granger."

"He didn't judge me when I came in here alone and ordered an alcoholic drink at three o'clock in the afternoon! It will buy him a new pipe," she argued.

Malfoy looked at her, lips pressed together and then he sighed as though she was the biggest pain in his arse, and dived into his pocket to throw some of his own coins down on the table. Hermione couldn't hide her surprise.

"Now he can buy some new teeth," he said snidely.

He was stung, but she didn't care. She couldn't stop the smile from creeping across her face as she grabbed her coat, flinging it round her back to try and navigate her arms into their sleeves. It was easier said than done and she kept missing the corresponding hole. Fumbling with her coat, she shoved her woolly hat between her teeth so she had her hands free. The sleeve evaded her arm again and she let out a frustrated mewl.

Malfoy glanced at her and said, "Oh, honestly, Granger," and impatiently grabbed her coat from behind her, holding it out so she could slide it on. He spun her round once the coat was safely on her person, snatched her hat from her teeth and shoved it on her head, so far it covered her eyes and tickled her nose. Hermione huffed.

She adjusted it so she could glare at him. He raised his eyebrows at her, as if daring her to say something snarky.

"I take it back," she said. "You haven't changed a bit."

Malfoy bit out a laugh, and Hermione noticed that when he was amused, the crinkles by his eyes would deepen and cut into the porcelain of his grey face. It made him look young again. "I'm glad to hear it, Granger. Now, move."

He gave her elbow a little push before throwing the Cloak over himself and disappearing. Hermione disarmed the wards and they left the warm, if a little dingy, pub to brave the biting wind outside.

The snow had started up again.

It was odd to be alone again, to not physically see him by her side-

"Don't look like that, Granger," his voice was biting but nervous.

"Like what?" she blinked.

"Like you're possessed!"

Hermione huffed. "Well I can't see you! What am I supposed to-?"

Suddenly, something grabbed her hand and she jumped, wrenching her arm away and stumbling backwards. A shriek left her lips, undignified, before she could stop it. "Draco, what-!"

"It was just an idea," he grumbled. He sounded further away. "So you weren't second-guessing where I was..."

Hermione's mouth dropped and she realised what he'd been trying to do. Hesitantly, she reached out her hand, outstretching her fingers.

There was a moment where nothing happened-

Then, Malfoy took her hand. Their fingers threaded together. It was practical, Hermione assured herself, nodding, pretending the warmth of his hand through their gloves didn't make her heart beat faster. More practical.

"It's not contempt," she said quickly. Despite the frost on her nose, Hermione felt her face go hot. His fingers seemed to tighten around hers.

For a moment, she didn't think he was going to reply and then, between the gasping wind and echoing laughs from lower down the village, there came an, _"Oh?"_

"The way I look at you," she clarified. "I mean, that's not to say I look at you any specific way. I just mean I really don't… hate you. Not at all. Not even a little."

Hermione cringed. There was quiet again. Not quiet because the world was much too noisy for the pair of them but quiet from him.

Then, Malfoy's voice. "I don't hate you either, Granger."

Hermione nodded. "Lovely. Lovely jubbly. Pleased to clear that up."

They started walking.

"It's just-" She really needed to stop talking and she was, moreover, acutely aware of the fact and yet, despite it all, she carried on. "I really thought I did. Even that first night. I remembered how cruel you'd been, how petty and nasty, and I tried to convince myself I still hated you. It's easier. It would've been easier... But I just couldn't equate who you were with the same person that told me to drink jasmine tea to help me sleep."

She was glad she couldn't see him but it made her heart beat faster in anticipation. She wondered if he could feel it in her fingers. After a moment or two, he said, "Did it help?"

Hermione frowned. "What?"

"The jasmine."

"Oh. Sometimes it does. Sometimes the nightmares come anyway. I think they do as they please."

He huffed a laugh, his breath was warm against her cheek. "Tends to be the case."

They continued walking, Hermione's arm tucked into her side so she wouldn't look like she was holding hands with an invisible boy whose pulse she swore she could feel in her fingertips. The snow had softened now. It waltzed down from the sky, dipping and twirling, kissing their cheeks, their eyelashes, their lips. She wondered vaguely what his eyes would look like, ringed with snowflakes.

The sky had started to drop dark, and a deep dusk clung to the horizon, weighing down the clouds. It was almost like a light-switch, the sun drifting below the lake, causing the distant castle to light up, one window by one. They wandered around the village as the last motley throng of students made their way back up to Hogwarts. Hermione was glad to be left alone; their footprints were stark on the pathway now, marked out in the slush, and she couldn't risk them being found out with only thirty minutes or so left.

Time had gone, as she had predicted, treacherously quickly.

"Have you had a good day?" she asked him, murmuring out of the corner of her mouth so it wouldn't look like she was talking to herself. That was the last thing she needed.

Hermione couldn't tell if she imagined it, but she thought he might've squeezed her hand. "It's been the best day I've had in a long time."

And a moment later, "And you?"

She nodded, then realised she couldn't possibly know if he was looking at her, so cleared her throat and said, "Yes." She sniffed. "But I think I'll probably have a cold tomorrow."

His scoff was far too loud to be inconspicuous and she clutched his hand so tightly she felt his bones crunch. He whispered a curse.

"That's just pathetic, Granger. It's not even that cold!"

Hermione spluttered. "Excuse _you_! It's freezing! I don't think I can feel my hands!"

"I'd wager you can," Malfoy grumbled. "You broke at least two of my fingers a minute ago."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't be so dramatic."

They stopped at the very edge of the village, where the pathway wound up to the mountains, and the lake shimmered at their feet. Hermione thought it was funny how the world could be condensed so easily, made so simple that it took your breath away, when everything else was such a confusion.

"I think this is my favourite place in the whole world," she said.

"Not the library?" was the droll remark she got in reply.

Hermione hummed in thought. "Good point. Second favourite, then."

She grinned but Malfoy was quiet. She glanced sideways, then remembered she couldn't see him. It was disheartening to see the trees and lake and mountains instead.

"I wish I could stay here forever," he said finally.

Hermione swallowed. Hesitantly, she leaned into where she thought he might be stood. He froze, then melted, and his arm against hers was solid and real and tangible.

"Me too," she whispered.

But alas, they couldn't. They waited until the sun had split and burst, exploding through the forest, skating the lake, and christening the mountain peaks, before it sunk lower and doused itself completely. Then, they set off back to the castle, in the falling night. Their steps were slow, meandering, wandering, taking their sweet time because time was limited and they were running out of it. She stuck to Malfoy's pace, swinging their hands between them now that no one was there to think her crazy. Hermione wasn't sure if he enjoyed it but he didn't stop her and he didn't make a sound, so she squeezed his fingers and continued doing it. It calmed her nerves.

Just before they entered the castle, they stopped. Hermione didn't know who stopped first, but they stood and let the night slip over them. One of them squeezed the others' hand. She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath-

The chatter of dinner sobered them, the doors closing behind them as soon as they'd stepped into the Great Hall foyer. Their day had expired.

"We need to check in with McGonagall," said Hermione, chewing her lip, looking at the floor. "To tell her we're back and- put your band back."

Malfoy took the Cloak off and appeared in front of her. Hermione felt obliged to look at him. His hair was ruffled, his nose and cheeks slightly pink. He looked alive. He handed her back the Cloak, reluctantly, and she knew it must feel like handing back his freedom.

She felt a yawn coming and tried to smother it quickly. He noticed anyway, if the quirk of his lips was anything to go by. "Go to dinner, Granger," he said. "Then get an early night. You look like you need it."

Affronted, she glowered at him, but another yawn was threatening to escape her. She swallowed it and said, "Don't be silly, Draco. I'll come with you."

Hermione started forwards but he reached out and held her shoulder. She stopped and stared at him. He was still smiling. Malfoy said, "Granger. Go to bed. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

He dropped his arm. Unconvinced, she tried to make a joke. "I warned you I'm not that easy to get rid of-"

Malfoy shook his head, but turned around and began walking away from her. "I'll hex you if you follow me. Get an early night."

She watched him walk away, in half the mind to run after him. His shoulders were straighter, she noticed. He stood taller. There was almost his old arrogance in each step.

Hermione didn't think that would have ever made her smile.

"Goodnight, Draco," she called after him.

She heard the smile in his voice. "Goodnight, Granger."


	15. Feverish

**Chapter Fifteen- Feverish**

She wasn't at breakfast the following morning.

Draco had slept well, better than he had done in a long time. He still woke up before the sun had sunk to the bottom of the Black Lake, saturating his room, but his eyes didn't sting like they usually did, his head didn't ache. He felt rested, at peace. Draco even let himself lie in bed for a few minutes.

Draco shifted and he felt the coolness of the band around his ankle. It didn't feel as tight as usual. He wondered if McGonagall had made it slacker. Running a hand over his face, he remembered the way the snow had felt on his skin, the way the heat in the pub had enveloped him and the heat from the Whiskey burned his throat, the way Hermione's hand felt in his, her head against his shoulder, her laugh ringing, the look in her eyes when she looked at him-

Draco pressed his palms into his eyes and let out a strangled noise. What in damnation was that witch doing to him? Had she hexed him? Or was it just that he was so desperate for someone to see him that he was starting to long for Hermione Granger to hold his hand again?

Just seeing her was enough to make his soul settle. He felt like he'd been lost for so long, wandering, searching for a way to be good again, that finding his destination was a dream. It didn't feel real. Yesterday had been the best day he'd had in so long and the fact that she'd gone to so much effort to make it possible, to make it legal, to help him breathe again… Granger had always given 100% to everything she put her mind to. There was something different with this, though, with him. He knew she was invested. He saw it in her eyes when she asked if he was okay, in her blood when she'd bitten her lip raw from trying to figure him out, in the wobble of her voice when she told him she didn't hate him.

That was why, when Granger wasn't at breakfast when he finally meandered to the Great Hall, it made him sick to his stomach. He stood, frozen, in the doorway, eyes roving over the red and gold table. Blaise was watching him and Draco forced himself to move over to the Slytherin table and sit beside his friend to avoid attracting any more odd looks. He swallowed thickly.

"Sleep well?" asked Blaise, still eyeing him.

"Yeah," replied Draco but he was distracted.

Blaise frowned at him then followed his gaze. He sighed. "She hasn't come in yet."

Draco looked at him quickly. "Who?"

His friend looked at him like they both knew it was a redundant question.

"Why should that matter to me?" asked Draco, but he also knew he wasn't fooling either of them.

Blaise didn't even bother to answer. He helped himself to some bacon. "Where were you yesterday anyway? I couldn't find you skulking anywhere in the castle."

Draco stayed silent for a long time. Eventually, he murmured, "What if I wasn't in the castle?"

The fork Blaise had been holding clattered to his plate, attracting a few scowls and startled glances. His friend's eyes flicked to him wildly, then he ducked his head closer and said in a low voice, "Then you're flirting with the law, Draco. You know that."

Draco swallowed. "What if I told you it was legal?"

"The Ministry gave you permission?" Blaise demanded.

Draco looked at him. He nodded once.

Blaise leaned back and let out a long whistle. "Fuck." He laughed. "How'd you manage that?"

"McGonagall."

"But how? _Why?"_

There was something at the back of Draco's mind that suggested he should tell Blaise the truth but admitting it felt like too much to say. "I don't know."

"Well what did you do? Where'd you go?" questioned Blaise.

"Hogsmeade."

"Alone?" An amused tilt lifted the word.

His amusement shattered a moment later when Draco refused to meet his eyes and said, in a quiet voice, "No."

Blaise frowned deeply. Bewildered, he said, "Then who-?" Understanding dawned on his face and there was something almost horrifying about it, causing Draco to panic. "Granger," he whispered, looking for confirmation.

Draco swallowed. "You can't tell a soul."

Blaise raised his eyebrows. He ran a hand over his head. "I've been ditched for Hermione sodding Granger!"

Draco picked up Blaise's abandoned fork and stabbed his hand lightly with it. "Will you lower your voice?" he hissed.

Blaise didn't even wince. He snatched his fork back and continued plating up. Draco didn't eat.

"Well did you at least have a nice day?" asked Blaise, voice strained.

Draco paused. "Yes. It was lovely, thank you."

He looked back at the Gryffindor Table. She still hadn't turned up. Draco pursed his lips. Wanted to stab himself in the hand with a fork for what he was going to do.

Draco got to his feet, ignoring Blaise's questions, and said, "I forgot something."

Blaise rolled his eyes, knowing that it wasn't a _something_ but a _someone_ that he'd forgotten, but Draco just began walking away from him. He knew where to look first. Lucky for him, Granger was a rather simple creature.

He checked the library first. It made sense that she'd be there, even at this god-awful time in the morning; most likely, Draco reasoned, she was catching up on all the work and additional revision she felt she missed yesterday, guilt spurring her out of bed before the sun had even kissed her curtains. But he caught no sight of her wild head of hair anywhere, and though he whisper-called her name down every aisle and was threatened with getting kicked out, she didn't appear to scold him. When it was clear she wasn't going to jump out from behind any bookshelves, Draco set out for the Room of Requirement but that, too, was empty. He even took the trouble of skirting round the Black Lake just to see if she hadn't popped out for a bit of fresh air. The air was incredibly fresh, and freezing; he didn't spend long outside and quickly made his way back to the Great Hall.

Draco loitered in the doorway, trying to rub some feeling back into his arms. He'd exhausted all his possibilities. He had no choice now. There was only one person he could ask. Well, he could ask a few more but he needed to know where Granger was _now_ and the Elves would take too long to check the whole castle, even between them, and it might be suspicious if he sent a Gryffindor First Year into her Common Room searching for her. That was why Draco stood in the entrance to the Great Hall, arms crossed, stealing himself for what he was about to do. He took a deep breath before he could change his mind. This was for Granger. Granger, who had gone to above and beyond to make sure he was okay. What kind of a person would he be if he didn't do the same?

A snide voice in his head told him he didn't want to know the answer.

Draco walked to the Gryffindor Table before he could step himself.

"Weasley," he said, swallowing back his nerves.

He hadn't spoken to the girl in years and even then, it was only ever a throwaway sneer to remind her of her place in the non-existent hierarchy. Still, Draco thought the look she shot him, like he was chewing gum on the base of her shoe, was a tad unnecessary. Then, he remembered his aunt had tried to kill her. And his father's friend had murdered her brother. He had to force himself to keep looking her in the eye.

"Ferret," she responded. Draco didn't remember Weaslebee's glare ever being this poisonous. A few of the Gryffindors around her laughed slightly. More of them watched him cautiously.

"Um," he began. His eyes flicked to the others, knowing they were listening. Vaguely, he wondered if Granger had even told the Weasley girl. It was unlikely, if she hadn't told Potter. "Can I speak with you? In private?"

Weasley stared at him for a very long time and he was almost about to give it up completely before she shrugged and said, "Sure."

She stood, beckoning for him to lead the way, and he wiped his hands on his trousers and led her out of the hall. As soon as they were out of the way of prying eyes, Weasley turned to him, hands on her lips, looking remarkably like her mother.

She demanded, "What do you want, Malfoy?"

Draco gaped. Then closed his mouth. "Where's Granger?" He cringed when she raised a single eyebrow, rushing to continue, "We have a potions project together and we need to get started on it. I noticed she wasn't at breakfast and I wouldn't know where to find her-"

"Have you checked the library?" Weasley asked plainly.

Draco frowned. "Of course I have."

He nearly drew a smirk from her but she seemed to remember who he was at the last moment. "Well," she crossed her arms. "I waited for her this morning but she didn't come out. When I knocked on her door, she said she wasn't feeling well."

Draco felt his throat tighten and he tried to school his features so his worry wouldn't be as transparent as what it probably was. "Oh. Okay. Thanks."

He made to turn around and she raised her eyebrows and said, "Is that it?"

Draco nodded, resisting the urge to get away from her and run to the Gryffindor Common Room. "Yeah. That's it."

"Right," said Weasley. She was still staring at him funny. "Well, see you around, Malfoy."

She turned on her heel and started back towards the Great Hall. Just before she disappeared inside, Weasley swung back around and said, "How are you anyway? The last time I saw you you'd just had seven shades of shit beaten out of you."

There might have been a hint of mockery in her voice but her face was like stone. In fact, Draco wagered he saw a flicker of sincerity in her dark eyes. He licked at his lips. "I'm alright. And Weasley, thanks for your help."

She nodded once and left, stalking back to her place at the Gryffindor table and resuming eating her breakfast as though nothing had happened. People were watching her.

"What did he want?" Draco heard Longbottom ask.

"Nothing, just asked me something about an assignment," lied Weasley easily.

He didn't wait around much longer. He loitered around the entrance hall as a few late-risers stumbled to breakfast, casting him careful looks and glancing away just as quickly. As soon as they'd passed, Draco skirted round the bannister of the staircase and pelted up the steps, taking two at a time. He didn't stop until he'd made it to the very top floor, skidding round corners and striding down corridors, finally coming to the portrait of the Fat Lady.

He stopped dead in his tracks then, common sense evading him. Now that he was there, he had no idea what to say.

"Tell- um, can you tell Hermione Granger that her- um, her potions partner needs to see her?" Draco demanded lamely.

The woman in the painting wasn't exactly what Draco would call a muse; if he was an artist, he certainly wouldn't have any desire to paint her. She had tight blonde ringlets, a wig if the way it wobbled on her head was anything to go by, purple prunes for lips and an eccentric and ugly middle-century dress. In her hand, she held a silver ornate mirror, which she preened herself in.

Ignoring him.

Draco twitched. He knocked on her frame and proverbial dust rained from the top of the portrait, the Fat Lady trembled, sprawling to steady herself. She looked at him reproachfully.

"Hermione Granger?" he demanded.

"Yes! Yes, alright! Honestly, the audacity. What do you want?" she raised a thinly painted eyebrow. Her voice grated on him, warbling like operetta. Merlin knew how Gryffindors coped with her; Draco thought it was starting to make sense why they were all so touchy.

Draco set his teeth. "I need to see Hermione Granger."

The Fat Lady sniffed, peering at her nails. "She's not well."

His face tightened but he resolved to stay as polite as he could. Plastering a smile on his face, he said, "That's why I need to see her."

"She doesn't need you demanding things of her also."

"I am _not_ demanding-"

Draco pinched his nose. "If you tell her I'm here then I'll leave. If you don't, I'll have to stay and annoy you all day. I have no where better to be."

She tried not to look at him but he knew he'd got her; the Fat Lady's lips pursed, her eyes flicked to him. Holding out a moment more, she let out a melodramatic scream of frustration before flouncing from her frame. Draco smirked.

His smirk didn't last very long. The Fat Lady didn't return. He thought maybe Granger was sleeping, and then he thought more likely the damned woman hadn't even entered Granger's room but crept off so she wouldn't have to help him at all. He started pacing.

It was ten minutes later when the Fat Lady reappeared, a little rumpled, fixing her wig. She shot him a nasty glare. He waited with bated breath but she remained silent, almost in protest.

 _"What-?"_

The portrait hole cracked open and he stopped talking. Sure enough, Granger peered her head round then huffed. She appeared fully after a second. Her hair was wild, even wilder than usual, sparking off in all directions, her eyes were pink and puffy, her nose red, her cheeks flushed, her lips cracked and sore. She was wrapped in a ludicrously bright dressing gown.

"Really, Draco," she sniffed. "Harassing a Portrait isn't going to get you anywhere. It's no wonder I constantly got higher grades than you-"

He growled, storming over to her and, uncaring of whoever might be watching, wrapped his arms around her tightly. Her hair smelled of vanilla and she was warm and soft and okay. After a moment, her thin arms reached up to embrace him.

"Draco," Hermione managed to get out. Her voice was muffled in his shoulder. "I don't mean to alarm you but colds are highly contagious."

Draco stepped away, roughly letting go of her. He glanced up and down the corridor. It was empty. His eyes returned soon after to her face, and he knew he must look ragged as he looked her over. Granger's eyebrows twitched.

"Draco? Were you- were you worried about me?" she sounded puzzled.

He found he couldn't continue looking at her when she sounded like that. It cut him cold like an accusation. His eyes traced the floor. "You weren't at breakfast."

Granger didn't say anything. He knew her lips were probably parted in surprise, that goldfish expression she usually adopted when someone had succeeded in making her speechless. Draco noticed she was barefoot, and goosebumps had already arisen on the exposed skin of her ankles.

"You need to go back to bed," he told her, scratching the back of his neck. "You really will catch your death out here."

She had folded her arms around her body, hugging herself. Granger watched him. "Okay," she nodded after a moment. "Draco-"

He looked up at her.

Granger smiled weakly. "Thank you for checking up on me."

He nodded. She turned round to leave and when she got to the portrait hole, Draco couldn't stop himself from blurting out, "Can I come in?"

Granger blinked. Then, she laughed. "I'm not sneaking you into my bedroom, Draco."

He blushed despite himself. She was still laughing. When she stopped, she leaned her head against the door to the Common Room and said, "You can't come in, Draco. How would I sneak you out? You'd bump into too many people, even with the Cloak on. It's too suspicious."

Draco nodded again, avoiding looking at her. Of course it was a stupid idea. But why on earth did he even want to go into the lions' den? He didn't have a death wish. At least, not anymore.

"But," began Granger, almost shyly. Draco blinked. He didn't think he'd ever seen Hermione Granger shy. "If you want company and you're really not put off by the state of me, then we could go to the Room of Requirement?"

She really did look awful. She kept sniffing and clearing her throat and he knew she was only hugging herself to preserve some heat.

Draco sighed. "Granger, you should rest-"

She rolled her eyes. "Please, I can still rest. I don't plan on doing much moving once we get there. Just let me get my robe. I don't want the whole castle seeing me in my pyjamas."

Her pyjama bottoms were visible from beneath her dressing gown and he noticed they had little golden bees on. Draco smirked. "Why not? They're cute."

The scowl she shot him could have killed him if she meant it. He swore her cheeks flushed darker.

Draco waited for her as she ducked back into the Common Room to retrieve her cloak. The Fat Lady was still disgruntled with him so he avoided looking at her, choosing to pick at his nails. It meant he missed the puzzled look on her oil painted face, and the way she softened, making her a little easier on the eye.

Granger reappeared a few minutes later, wrapping her cloak tight around her body. He realised she must have stopped to brush her hair for it wasn't quite as ferociously wild. He didn't know what to make of that.

They walked side by side, quietly, like they always did, reaching the Room in no time as it was on the same floor. Draco did the pacing and the wishing and held the door open for her when it eventually transpired.

The Room had procured their usual space; the two settees opposite one another, in front of the crackling fire, with a forest of bookshelves at the far end. It was warm, comfortably so, and he saw Granger almost melt. He walked behind her as she made her way to the nearest sofa, just in case. There were piles of blankets and cushions and she collapsed on the seat, laying back into the pillows. He shook a blanket open and draped it over her. Granger schooled her surprise, smiled her thanks.

Sitting opposite her, Draco clasped his hands together, watching her get comfy. She looked like she might fall asleep again at any moment.

"You weren't joking when you said you felt a cold coming on," he remarked. Cleared his throat. Offered her a crooked smile.

She cocked her head and smiled at him. "No. I'm fine. I always come down with one about now. It's not too bad. It means I'm over it by Christmas," she said. She was quiet for a moment. "Have you got any plans for Christmas?"

Draco swallowed thickly. He leaned back into the settee. "I wasn't even allowed into Hogsmeade, Granger. My home is a crime scene. It will be the first Christmas I stay at Hogwarts for, excluding Fourth Year."

"Oh," Granger pulled a face. "I'm sorry. I'm so dense. I didn't think-"

"What! Hermione Granger didn't think?" he teased.

She narrowed her eyes jokingly at him. Draco almost grinned.

She tucked her legs up and shivered, trying to play it off as she shifted. Draco slipped his wand out and conjured her some bed-socks. Granger flexed her toes and laughed. "Thank you, that's much better.

"If it's any consolation, I'm staying over the Holidays too. Harry and Ron are working right up till Christmas Day. I was invited to the Burrow but I'd end up being alone for most of the holiday so I might as well stay here," she said.

Draco tried to offer her a weak smile. "We can be loners together."

She laughed loudly. "What a bleak picture."

His smile softened. When he looked back at her, her eyes were closed. He said gently, "I wouldn't have been offended if you'd declined spending the day with me."

Granger's lips curled lazily. "Knowing how easily offended you are, I'd beg to differ."

Momentarily affronted, Draco recoiled and opened his mouth to retaliate before realising it was just proving her right and a Granger proved right proved insufferable. Instead, he closed his mouth.

"I can't believe you chased around the castle and then accosted-"

"I _didn't_ accost," he scoffed. "If anything, _she_ accosted _me_. Nobody in their right mind would willingly commit her image to canvas."

"- the Fat Lady just to find me. Once upon a time, you'd avoid me at all costs."

She sounded amused at the fact. Nevertheless, Draco felt a bit bashful. He murmured, "Sometimes, I'd try find you. If I was bored. You always gave me a run for my money. It was entertaining."

Granger cracked an eye open. "When I wasn't verbally destroying you."

"Or punching me," he grimaced, rubbing the ghost of his broken jaw. The bruise hadn't faded for weeks; he'd had to use makeup to hide it from his father.

A traitorous smile crawled across her face at the memory and Draco scowled. It dropped just as quickly.

"Do you have any parchment?" she asked suddenly, eyes darting open. She flew forwards, sitting up, blanket falling from her lap.

Draco frowned. "Why would I have-? Why do you need any? Please tell me you're not planning on doing homework right now, Granger."

"No," she exclaimed. "Be patient and you'll see! Now do you have any?"

He felt like a petulant child, being scolded by his mother. Hauling himself to his feet, he sauntered over to the bookshelves, dragging his finger along the spines. There were quite a few he recognised and he wondered if the Room had done this on purpose. He thought it for sure when he came across a certain title. His finger lingered. His lip curled.

Draco returned not a moment later, book in hand. He flashed her the title when she craned her neck to nosy.

"Hamlet?" Granger read aloud. "You really are an admirer, aren't you?"

"Of Shakespeare? Usually," replied Draco. "But not this one."

He fell back into the settee, opened the book on his lap and ripped out a page. The gasp that tore itself from Granger's throat made it seem like he'd murdered someone in front of her and offered her a cup of tea over the corpse.

He went to rip another one out.

 _"Draco!"_ she cried, aghast.

"Oh bugger off, Granger. It's just a book."

"It's a classic!"

"It's a joke," he pulled a face. "Hamlet lets everything destroy him. He should've been more tactile about it."

"His Father was murdered by his Uncle!" she fumed, her nostrils flaring. She looked a little bit more alive than she had done earlier.

"So? What kind of sob story is that?" he demanded.

Granger scoffed loudly. "A bloody good one!"

"Bloody is right," muttered Draco. Then, louder and more incensed: "You have read Hamlet, haven't you! His sob story led to everyone dying!"

"Some people can't help what happens to them," glared Granger.

"No, but they can control how they deal with it," he gritted out.

She scowled but stayed quiet, seeming to let him have it. Then, she held out her hand, jutting it out like a small child coming round from a paddy. Draco ripped another page. He made sure it sounded louder this time. Granger winced.

He stood and passed her the pages. Granger let him know what she thought about him in a nasty glare that didn't instil as much fear in him as it had done once. She sat up a little straighter, retrieving her wand from the pocket of her robe and directing it at the pages. Draco watched her curiously. He swore she muttered something condemning to herself, casting him a final quick scowl.

The magic trickled from the end of her wand, soaking into the paper, which glowed golden. She raised an eyebrow at him when she was finished and he realised he'd been gaping at her.

"Here," said Granger, passing it him back. He met her halfway. She was still a bit unsteady on her feet.

"And what's this?" he questioned, wafting it about.

She frowned. "Well, you can't very well be bothering the Fat Lady. She's a gossip, you know. Everyone will know we're 'potions partners'- nice cover-up by the way, but it means when Slughorn inevitably sets partner work we have to go together to avoid suspicion-"

"Blaise already knows."

Granger petered off, lips still parted as though she was going to continue. She blinked. "Right. Well, it's probably not surprising that he's figured it out. I did chase him down the corridor demanding he tell me your whereabouts."

"I-" Draco stopped. "What?"

Granger cringed. "He didn't tell you?"

He didn't know whether to laugh or be annoyed. Noiselessly, he shook his head.

"Right." Granger wouldn't look at him. "Well, Ginny knows I'm meeting someone when I sneak off. She's been spying on me. Not very well, mind you, but I think she was trying to be respectful about it- anyway, I didn't tell her who."

Draco tried not to look any different but the guilt must've leaked into his face for Granger sobered and demanded, "What?"

"Weasley probably knows now," he said haltingly.

"What did you do?"

The accusation in her voice made him grimace.

"Nothing! Not explicitly, at least. I just asked her where you were-"

"Oh, _fuck!_ "

The expletive came hard and fast from Granger's mouth that Draco had to do a double take. "Granger! Did you just-?"

"Well it's done now, isn't it?" she exclaimed. "If everyone knows, then they know! It's not like I'm ashamed of you, nor you me. Admittedly, it's more frustrating with my friends because they're all fools who cling onto silly high school rivalries, and I don't have the time nor the energy to explain to them the delicacies of the situation. Zabini wasn't _thrilled_ with me when I first spoke to him but at least he seems to know to keep quiet when his opinion isn't wanted. We won't have to sneak around anymore, though." Granger fell back into the settee with a massive huff of air and a flip of her blanket. "Besides, it would be nice to not seem crazy when I'm taking to the sodding Invisible Man!"

Draco couldn't speak for a moment and then he shook his head in slow bewilderment. "Granger, did you just swear? _Twice!_ Has the fever gone to your head now?"

She rolled her eyes, but a small smile curled her lips. "Honestly, Draco," she said. "You act like I'm incapable of using profanities."

"Prim and proper Granger," he smirked. "I never pegged you as a potty mouth."

"That's because I never said what I was really thinking to your face," she replied snidely.

His lip curled. "Clever."

"So I've been told."

"Not very funny though," he said sulkily.

She pouted. "You break my heart." Granger started coughing. She continued weakly, "I've made you laugh quite a bit recently."

"At you, Granger," he replied, running a hand through his hair. "Not with you. There's a difference."

A single eyebrow quirked up her forehead. "I seem to remember you vastly enjoying my company yesterday," she sniffed. "Besides, hunting me down today-"

Draco scoffed. "Will you stop saying it like that! I did _not_ hunt you down-"

"It all makes me think that you rather have a soft spot for me."

She finished and Draco could only stare at her.

He noticed she'd gotten increasingly breathless and slow, her eyes almost rolling back into head, and wondered if the fever really had made it to her brain.

"Granger?"

Her head lolled back into the pillows, blanket slipping further down her body. Draco saw she'd kept her robe on too, but that didn't seem to stop her from shivering violently. He pressed his lips into a line. Carefully, he stood, walking round the coffee table, stopping when he was in front of her. He bit the inside of his cheek, chest feeling like it would explode from the war raging within it but he saw her tremble and relinquished.

Quietly, and softly so as to not alarm her, he eased himself onto the settee next to her. Granger shifted a little bit, cracking an eye open. Draco felt drowned in her accusations. Before he could lose his nerve, he slipped his arm behind her, pulling her to him, wrapping her in his warmth. He felt her dreary eyes on him but ignored it, pulling the blanket to cover her. Granger stiffened, but it was only for a second- it felt much longer, it felt to drag on for hours, making him question and his arm twitched to pull from around her shoulders- before she melted into him, moulding her body to his, head resting in the crook between his shoulder and jaw.

Draco didn't know what this feeling was. The warmth of her, pressed against him, encased in his arms, for he brought his other arm up to wrap around her front, made something settle deep within him. He could feel every one of her breaths, inhaling against his skin, expanding in her chest. Her hair, against every preconception, was not like a bird's nest at all, but soft and ticklish. She smelled of vanilla and olbas oil.

Draco let out a shaky breath. Closed his eyes-

He didn't know exactly what the sensation was when he felt something gentle press against his neck. It was slightly wet, soft, sweet. Granger pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his skin. Draco bit back a gasp.

He swallowed. Leaned closer to her, clutching her tighter. She whispered his name. Spelled it out on the hollow of his neck with her lips. Then fell asleep.

Numbly, he laid his head back on the cushion. The ceiling flickered with the firelight, dancing across the dark, and Draco screwed his eyes shut. Granger was sleeping on him, close to his body, at peace and making his heart feel at peace in quite the same manner. His neck buzzed, like he'd been electrocuted and the sparks remained, incapacitating him with aftershocks.

What was she doing to him? Why did she think she could waltz into his mess of a life with her bee pyjamas and garish gown and give him a meaning, give him motive and reason, to live when he'd all but given up? Draco let out a ragged sigh. Looking down at her, he knew he didn't mind. He couldn't. Not when she made him feel like there was a sunrise inside of his chest, which could only set in her eyes. He swallowed again. Licked his lips because they'd gone dry. Then, slowly, he leaned closer and pressed his lips to her forehead, lingering there, closing his eyes, holding her as close as he dared, knowing he would never truly let her go.

 **AN: Merry Christmas to you all! Watching a film and my mother just commented that I seem to have a thing for, and I quote, "arrogant blonds." I have no words. I was really struggling with this chapter because I just had nothing to write and really, it was intended to be just a filler to get in some cute scenes of Draco nursing Hermione and then suddenly, after weeks of dabbling and a concentrated three days of writing, it turns out I have 5000+ words and it's probably one of the most important chapters today which is bizarre. Things finally seem to be heating up. I hope you had a lovely Christmas and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.**


	16. The Lightning Struck Tower

**Chapter Sixteen- The Lightning Struck Tower**

Before the sun had even touched the frost-bitten grounds, Hermione was up and striding through the castle. The fever still clung to her, regrettably, in the stinging of her tired eyes and the running of her nose, but she felt better. She would be damned if she let a silly little cold keep her off school.

But before she could even think about her lessons, she had somewhere else to be. Walking as quickly as she could, Hermione wrenched her robes tighter around her body. Shirt stiff from the freezing air, toes aching from the cold of the castle, she kept walking. There was something she needed to do before the bell rang and the pressures of school could distract her. Her footsteps clattered with each step but she didn't concern herself with it, not slowing down or stopping until she came to stand before the gargoyles.

"Matchmakers," she announced.

The gargoyles sprung apart and Hermione waited for the staircase to appear before she stepped on it. When she got to the top, she knocked on the door to the Headmistress' office.

There was silence. She knocked again.

"Professor?"

The door cracked and then edged open. Hermione frowned, peering in. She couldn't see anyone so she pushed the door a little further, grappling wildly once she realised she'd pushed it a little bit too hard and it swung open all the way, clattering against the wall and echoing, leaving her standing dumbly in the doorway.

Well, it's open now, she thought. Hermione stepped inside the office, looking for her Headmistress.

"Professor McGonagall?" she tried again.

"I'm afraid she's not here, Miss Granger."

Hermione jumped, hand clutching her heart, spinning round. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled in amusement.

"Professor Dumbledore," she said, still a little breathless. "You startled me."

"So I noticed."

Hermione offered him a smile. Once her heart had climbed back down to its usual pace, she realised what he had said and frowned. "Do you know where Professor McGonagall might be?"

He folded his fingers together. "I'm afraid not," he replied. "Is there anything I can help with?"

"Oh," Hermione waved her hand in dismissal. "It's nothing important. I just wanted to thank her for what she did for Dr- _Malfoy_. He really appreciated it. I think he had a lovely day."

Dumbledore smiled genially. "I'm glad to hear it, Miss Granger.

She returned his smile. "Well, since Professor McGonagall isn't here, I suppose I should leave. Can you tell her I visited-?"

"Miss Granger," interrupted Dumbledore. "I trust you are aware that Mr Malfoy was sent to murder me in his Sixth Year here at Hogwarts."

Hermione's mouth dropped open. She stumbled, then stopped completely. "Yes but he didn't," she said hotly.

Dumbledore almost smiled. "It was not an accusation, Miss Granger. I wonder if you also know that it nearly broke the boy to even point his wand at me."

She didn't know what the former Headmaster was insinuating, and her eyes narrowed imperceptibly.

"That's because Draco Malfoy is no killer, sir."

He leaned forward slightly in his frame, glasses slipping further down his nose, eyes gleaming. "Exactly, Miss Granger. It was Severus Snape who cast the final curse, and only on my orders."

Hermione tried to process what he was saying. Why did he have to maintain the riddles? There was no war now! No complexities or enemies to worry about. Why couldn't he just be plain with her? She shook her head in frustration and said, "Professor, I don't understand what you're getting at."

"Draco Malfoy was redeemable then. And he is redeemable now. The reluctance within him is evident; a guilty man does not cry as he is about to kill you, Miss Granger, not when he believes he is killing himself in the process. It refutes any claims that he is a man after his father."

Hermione could barely think. She could barely breathe. "Do you think-?" she began. Her brain whizzed impossibly fast, reason flinging round and round in circles. Frowning, trying to steady her thoughts, she questioned, "Would this hold up in court? Professor, could you testify? To show Draco wasn't all bad, to show he wasn't committed in the slightest but in fact, just as much a victim as anyone else!"

It was only when she stopped talking that she realised the blue in Dumbledore's eyes had dulled.

"Miss Granger, I'm afraid I'm not exactly what one would call a reliable witness," he said heavily. "Though my magic is interlaced with this portrait, I'm not the Albus Dumbledore that once was. How flimsy a case it would have to be to rely solely upon the word of a drawing."

Hermione felt her hope pop. It had ballooned in her chest, filling her with light and excitable air, but her former Headmaster's words punctured it in that moment. There was no way she could save him. No through road. No catch.

"The testimony of a portrait won't hold up in court. However," continued Dumbledore and Hermione perked up. She watched him keenly, clinging on to every word, monitoring his eyes for any sign of a telling glimmer. "The testimony of a memory might."

"That's all very well, Professor, but how-?"

"Just to the left of the bookshelf, Miss Granger, there is a cupboard. Please open it."

Wordlessly, Hermione's mouth snapped shut and she did as she was told. The cupboard door stuck a little and she had to force it open, after which it swung and banged against the wall. Inside, she noticed a shallow stone basin, resting on the shelf. There was a mirror above it, and Hermione saw the dull circles under her eyes and realised she'd bitten her lip so much it had started to bleed again. She looked away, eyes tracing instead the rim of the bowl, where runes were etched deeply into the stone; there were a few she recognised, protection runes they'd done in Fifth Year for their OWLS and secrecy runes she'd only read about because of their complexity. Hermione frowned.

"Do you know what it is, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore's voice sounded distant.

"A penseive," she breathed. Then, repeated it louder.

"Exactly right. Take a closer look," he prompted. "Oh, and remember to take a breath."

Biting her lip, Hermione could not hold back her curiosity. She edged closer, bracing her hands on either side of the basin. It felt cool under her palms. She leaned in, then remembered what Dumbledore had said and took a deep breath-

And then she was falling.

It really was a curious sensation; it reminded Hermione of using a Portkey, that odd hooking behind her naval as though she was being yanked from the ground and thrown elsewhere, only softer and there was significantly less panic about what would happen when she finally landed. The panic returned, more intense, when she realised where she was.

The Astronomy Tower looked differed to how she remembered it, eerily reminiscent of a place she had only ever dreamt about for what had happened there; it had been the setting for many of her nightmares, the turning point, the moment when everything went dark and downhill and wrong. Still, she recognised the black railings constricting the Scottish highland, and silver planets hung full and incapacitated in the centre of the platform. Stairs descended into shadow. The Dark Mark hung from the sky, a blazing green skull with a serpent tongue, writhing through the heavy clouds.

"Go and wake Severus," said a voice faintly but clearly. Hermione swung round, her mouth dropped open. "Tell him what has happened and bring him to me. Do nothing else, speak to nobody else and do not remove your Cloak. I shall wait here."

"But-"

"You swore to obey me, Harry- go!"

Hermione watched as her best friend hesitated then started towards the staircase; there was terror etched into the freshness of his young face, sweat and dirt clinging to his skin. Around him, there was a golden outline, iridescent, disconcertingly separate from the reality of the memory. She realised it must be his Invisibility Cloak, and wondered vaguely how the magic of the pensieve ensured her omnipotence.

Just as his hand closed upon the iron ring of the door, there was a clatter of footsteps. Dumbledore motioned for Harry to retreat and the door burst open.

"Expelliarmus!"

Hermione could barely comprehend the scene as it happened: Harry fell against the wall, limbs locked into place, Cloak stuck to his body; Dumbledore's wand arched overhead, soaring through the air; Draco Malfoy caught it.

"Good evening, Draco."

Hermione's breath left her. Her knees collapsed and she fell to the floor, clutching at her chest. "Oh God," she murmured.

This was not the same boy she now knew. His skin was drained of all colour, pallid and sickly white. There were grey circles under his bloodshot eyes and his lips were red with blood from where he'd bitten away at the nerves. His hand shook. His hair was a greasy mess. He was panting.

"Who else is here?" he demanded, eyes frantically checking the room, lingering on the two brooms by Hermione. She gasped when his eyes landed on her, slid past her. She forgot she was a ghost, a temporary visitor in this scene.

"A question I might ask you. Or are you acting alone?"

The greenish glare of the Dark Mark cast his face in shadow but Hermione saw the flicker of panic.

"No," said Draco. "I've got back-up. There are Death Eaters here in your school tonight."

"Well, well!" Dumbledore sounded as though his student was merely describing an ambitious homework project he'd completed. "Very good indeed. You found a way to let them in, did you?"

"Yeah. Right under your nose and you never realised!"

"Ingenious," said Dumbledore lightly. Perturbed at his geniality, Hermione glanced at him and noticed the blackness of his shrivelled hand, the way the Headmaster was leaning against the railing to keep himself upright, the perspiration around his hairline. He was dying, she realised. He was already dead.

"Yet... forgive me... where are they now? You seem unsupported."

"They met some of your guard. They're having a fight down below. They won't be long... I came on ahead. I- I've got a job to do."

Hermione closed her eyes.

"Well, then, you must get on and do it, my dear boy," said Dumbledore softly.

Her eyes shot open.

There was silence, so terse it cut through the memory. All Hermione could hear was the harshness of her own breathing.

Draco could do nothing but stare, face stricken, eyes scandalised.

Dumbledore smiled and said, almost sadly, "Draco. Draco, you are not a killer."

Immediately, Draco demanded, "How do you know?"

His voice shook. Hermione didn't know from what.

"You don't know what I'm capable of!" He said forcefully. "You don't know what I've done!"

Mildly, Dumbledore said, "Oh, yes I do. You almost killed Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley. You have been trying, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year. Forgive me, Draco, but they have been feeble attempts... so feeble, to be honest, that I wonder whether your heart has been really in it..."

"It has been in it!" Draco snarled viciously.

The words echoed. Hermione frowned. His lips froze in a sneer. Dumbledore still looked mild and gentle, eyes glowing green in the haze of the Dark Mark. Glancing at Harry, she noticed that his eyes were as frozen as his body.

Gingerly, she stood. She moved closer to her best friend, knowing that he wouldn't hear her but nevertheless whispering, " _Harry. Harry!"_

He didn't move. It was like the memory had stopped but it didn't seem like the pensieve was throwing her out. Hermione wondered if it was lagging; surely, there was more to see.

She stood and waited, body tense, blood racing, resisting every urge within her to turn and look at him. His voice had been the same, tonight however it dripped with _fear_ , pure, undulated fear. He looked different though, more haunted, eyes paler, skin paler still. Hermione dared to look over her shoulder, then gave way to turning to face him completely.

It was not her Draco. There was no indignant passion, no exasperated amusement in his person. His cheekbones were sallow, his wrists protruding, his robes hung from his frame. Hermione couldn't stop herself from wandering closer. Standing in front of him, she raised her hand, hesitating. Her fingers trembled, then brushed his knuckles, tight and cold around his wand. They ghosted up his arm, rustling his sleeve, lingering on his neck though there was no pulse and it unnerved her so she quickly moved on. Hermione cupped his cheek, brushing her thumb across his skin. He felt like waxwork. It did not do justice to the decadent and unbridled humanity pulsing within him.

Hermione traced every detail of his face, eyes following the point of his nose, the hollow of his cheek, the soft curves of his lips-

"Got there at last, have you?" he snarled abruptly.

Hermione leapt back, ripping her hand away. Her chest heaved and she missed what Dumbledore said in reply as she caught her breath.

"- tell me," Dumbledore was saying when she next blinked. "How have you been communicating with Rosmerta? I thought we had all methods of communication in and out of the school monitored."

"Enchanted coins." It was like Draco was under Veritaserum. He answered before he thought as though obliged to keep talking, though his hand shook badly. Despite herself, Hermione reached out and held it to try and steady him. It didn't work. He trembled regardless. "I had one and she had the other and I could send her messages-"

"Isn't that the secret method of communication the group that called themselves Dumbledore's Army used last year?" asked Dumbledore conversationally. He slipped down the wall another inch.

Draco's lips twisted into a malicious smile. "Yeah, I got the idea from them. I got the idea of poisoning the mead from Mudblood Granger, as well, I heard her talking in the library about Filch not recognising potions…"

Hermione recoiled. It felt as though he'd slapped her. She stumbled backwards, reeling. Bile crept up her throat.

"Please do not use that offensive word in front of me." Dumbledore's voice finally sounded hard and stony.

Malfoy let out a harsh laugh. Dazed, Hermione tuned out of the conversation.

 _Mudblood._

How long had it been since she'd heard that word? She gripped her forearm. Heard her blood drip, felt it warm and thick, running down her skin, falling on the cold stone floor of Malfoy Manor-

"There is little time, one way or another," said Dumbledore. "So let us discuss your options, Draco."

" _My_ options!" cried Malfoy. "I'm standing here with a wand- I'm about to _kill_ you-"

"My dear boy, let us have no more pretence about that. If you were going to kill me, you would have done it when you first Disarmed me, you would not have stopped for this pleasant chat about ways and means."

" _I haven't got any options!_ " Hermione looked at him. Through her tears, he remarkably resembled the boy that had stood and witnessed her torture, looking desperately as though he would like to take her pain from her and get them both out of there. He was crying silently, a vein straining in his forehead. "I've got to do it. He'll kill me! He'll kill my whole family!"

Hermione crumbled. Dear lord, what was this world? What was this world they lived in? How many dead-ends could they hit, how many options would they run out of, before they realised there was so much more than black and white?

"I appreciate the difficulty of your position," said Dumbledore. He was nearly crouched down, fingers white as he gripped the rail for support. His voice, however, was strong. Clear as day in the dim green light of evil. "Why else do you think I have not confronted you before now? Because I knew that you would have been murdered if Lord Voldemort realised that I suspected you."

Malfoy winced.

"I did not dare speak to you of the mission with which I knew you had been entrusted, in case he used Leglimency against you," continued Dumbledore. "But now at last we can speak plainly to each other… no harm has been done, you have hurt nobody, though you are very lucky that your unintentional victims have survived… I can help you, Draco."

"No, you can't," said Malfoy, wand hand and voice shaking tremulously. "Nobody can. He told me to do it or he'll kill me. I've got no choice."

The sky started to swell, fading white at the fringes, ballooning out before bursting. Silently, the shards of the memory fell, crumpling inwards. Hermione desperately looked back at Draco. He was still talking, though his words fell deaf on her ears.

"… Come over to the right side, Draco." Dumbledore's voice was magnified. "You are not a killer."

The final word echoed around the chasm of the Pensieve, around Hermione's mind. She tried to reach for the railing, for something to hold onto because there was more to see and she knew there was but the memory was failing. Sound buckled. The air warped. The walls of the scene collapsed in on itself, suffocating her-

Hermione was wrenched back into reality, the memory slipping from her, dousing her in sobriety. The stone basin sat sturdily at her fingertips. The surface of the liquid rippled.

She took a moment to breathe. It was a lot to process. Her heart and mind raced.

 _Good Evening, Draco. I've got a job to do. I wonder if your heart has really been in it. Mudblood. Options. I haven't got any options! Mudblood. He'll kill me! He'll kill my whole family! I haven't got any options! Mudblood. You are not a killer, Draco. Mudblood. You are not a killer-_

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione blinked. "Yes?"

"Are you quite alright?"

The Portrait's voice was exactly the same as his memory counterpart.

"Yes," she said, smoothing down her skirt. "Yes."

He waited patiently.

"Sir," she began, once her organs had all settled back into place and her brain managed to string a sentence together. Hermione swallowed back whatever jumble of feelings had arisen inside of her gut. "It's- it's perfect but it's-"

"Incomplete," he smiled sadly.

Hermione tried to smile too but it got caught on her cheeks.

"This memory was taken from me post-mortem. It had slipped out of my eye like a tear. Professor McGonagall kept it safe here but the impact of death has hindered it," he explained.

Hermione could feel her eyes growing wet. She didn't know why she was crying. Wiping at them she pushed her hands hard into her eye sockets to stop and forced herself to be rational. "It could still work," she said, glancing back at the pensieve. "It still partly shows that he was unwilling, that he wasn't committed."

Dumbledore pressed his lips into a line and nodded. "Of course. But how strong is a defence of a patchy dead man's memory against countless victims who witnessed him do nothing in the face of evil?"

"It's not just any patchy dead-man's memory," muttered Hermione. "It's yours. You're Albus Dumbledore. That's got to count for something."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Alas, it does. It counts for me being a fascist turned blood traitor who watched his own sister die in his quest for power. Rita Skeeter greatly tarnished my reputation."

His face had collapsed in on itself slightly, paint collecting in the creases of his face. He said, "I'm so sorry, Miss Granger, that I can't do anything more."

Hermione was sure something fell inside of her chest, something she knew was important, something she needed to live, but it was knocked off its place rather gently at that admission, falling through the chasm of her body, where her hope had once been. In its place, there was a desolate emptiness, a void crying out, questioning what could she do?

 _Mudblood._

She shook her head, flinging his voice out of her mind. Malfoy- _Draco_ didn't deserve a lifetime in Azkaban. He deserved to pass examinations, to work his way up in the world, to marry, to be a father, to grow old, to love and be loved. That was the bottom of it.

"Wait," she mumbled. Hermione inhaled sharply. It came to her quite abruptly, knocking the air from her lungs, causing her to stagger backwards. "You weren't the only one there that night, Professor. Harry was there. That means, Harry will have the memory too. And he's the Boy Who Lived! The Wizengamot will have to listen to him!" Her words left her in one single breath and she gasped, clutching at her gut. She was overtaken with the thought of it. "Oh god, it could work. Harry can testify. We might be able to save Draco."

She missed the way Dumbledore's eyes shone and his beard twitched as he hid a smile.

 _Mudblood._

Hermione clenched her eyes shut. Her head shot to look at him. "Professor, I'm so sorry but I need to go. Class will be starting soon but I need to write to Harry. Thank you. Sir. Really, I can't thank you enough."

"Miss Granger. I did nothing. It was your own genius that came up with such a plan."

Hermione shook her head, opening her mouth to refuse him but he cut her off.

"All I ever did, Miss Granger," he said heavily, his eyes appealing and bright, "was try to do right. Not at first, not when I was young and foolish and blind. But after, after I'd lost everything and had to claw my way back up. I tried to do right. I didn't always succeed." He spoke gravely, and the weight of the world on his shoulders made him hoarse from all the exertion. Hermione couldn't help but stare at the regret in his eyes, etched deep in the crevices of his wizened face. He seemed to be trying not to cry. "But I always tried."

"Professor," she said softly. "That's all anyone can do."

Dumbledore looked impossibly older, more haggard and weighed down. The tears fell freely from his eyes. "I tried. I tried."

"And it was enough," said Hermione firmly.

He clung to her resoluteness then, before remembering who he was and his face lit up like someone had lit a candle behind each eye. "Miss Granger, you're quite right, classes will be starting soon. You had better go get some breakfast."

Hermione recognised the dismissal and she smiled at him, thanking him softly once again before she left the room. As she dismounted the stairs, she heard the Portrait mumbling to himself, " _Dear Lord, I hope it is enough."_

 **oOoOoOo**

 _Dearest Harry,_

 _I cannot express how terribly I miss you. I keep forgetting myself and waking, hoping to see you and Ronald doing last minute homework in the Common Room, pouring over your essays, measuring them helplessly in a futile bid to find the final few inches Professor Snape requested. When the Common Room is empty (for I wake up at an ungodly hour, I'm sure Ginny has complained enough about that in her letters), it takes a moment for reality to set in. I would prefer you to be here, but I know you couldn't think of anything worse!_

 _Thank you for the Cloak and the Map. I'll tell you in more detail why I needed them so badly at the last minute when I see you next. You'll no doubt call me crazy and I'd like to be able to defend myself to your face, so you can look me in the eye and see that I haven't lost my marbles (at least, not all of them). If you don't mind, I'd like to keep them for a little while longer. If you need them at all, simply owl me and I will send them back to you._

 _I actually have a favour to ask you. Please know that I would not be asking if I didn't feel very passionately about the matter and thought there was any other way. There is not. I have checked. Draco Malfoy, I trust you remember him, has come back to complete his final year at Hogwarts. He is not here by choice; the Ministry have placed him here pending his trial. You'd be surprised how different he is. He's not the same snarky bully we remembered from before the war. Well, he's snarky sometimes, if he's slept well. I have become… friends with him these past few months. He helps me sleep, Harry. I owe him thanks for that, at the very least._

 _Therefore, I was hoping to ask you for your help. I need your memory, Harry, of the night Dumbledore died. His Portrait is in the Heads' Office and he showed me Dumbledore's but it's incomplete, taken from after he died_. _I don't think it will be enough but I think yours will. Harry, I think you can save Draco Malfoy. I know you've had your differences but I also know you- you can't let anybody fall. You never had a choice in any of it, Harry, and neither did he. But now you do. You have the choice to save him or let him fall. He's just trying to do right, Harry, and it needs to be enough. It has to be._

 _I feel like this would be better explained over a cup of tea._

 _Write me ASAP._

 _I love you and I know it's a lot to take in but I hope you try to see reason,_

 _Hermione_

 _P.S: Tell Ronald to calm down. I can already see his pointless anger at the whole thing. Malfoy isn't nearly as gobby as he used to be. Perhaps they'd even get along._

 **oOoOoOo**

 _Dearest Hermione,_

 _Couldn't you have just stopped with the House Elves?_

 _We have a few days off over Christmas. Ron wants to see if Madam Rosmerta still looks as good as he remembers and I wouldn't mind a Butterbeer. Fancy a trip to Hogsmeade like the good old days? Then we can see what is to be done about this Ferret infestation._

 _Yours forever,_

 _Harry_

 _P.S: Ron says over his dead body._

 **AN: Credit to JK Rowling, of course. To make it as authentic as possible, I used the exact dialogue from Half Blood Prince. I don't know if any of you have noticed, probably not because I'm just a numpty who reads into everything, but take notice of how they address each other. The alternating uses of Draco, Malfoy, Hermione and Granger are very important in revealing their developing relationship and inner feelings. Also, I figured that it would be very distressing for Hermione to witness that memory, especially when Malfoy mentions her; I think it would shake her deeply to be reminded of who he was, perhaps even shaking her resolve to help him for a second. I've rushed this chapter to get it out to you lovely lot so I hope you like it! It's more plot than fluff, I'm afraid, but HARRY AND RON AND COMING SOON! My boys.**


	17. Her

**Chapter Seventeen- Her**

Draco didn't know why but she'd been avoiding him. He hadn't seen Granger in over a week, not since that day when he'd held her in his arms as she slept, fever clinging to both of them. He hated to say it but it panicked him. What if she remembered the searing of his lips on her forehead? What if the thought disgusted her, the fact that she'd let her guard down for a Death Eater to touch her?

It wasn't just that they hadn't seen each other, they had. Draco had run into her in the library, where she'd offered him a smile then immediately returned to her book on medieval law, and then again in class, where she hadn't even spared him a glance. Granger also skipped out on their evening meetings. Draco had waited until just before curfew the past few nights but he'd arrived and left alone.

When he saw her sitting on the banking of the Black Lake, he paused and watched her for a moment. There were books scattered around her, on the frosty grass, but she sat with her head tilted back, facing the sky. She had a robe wrapped around her, with her horrible pink coat buttoned over the top and wore her hat, scarf and gloves. Draco almost cursed her. She was never going to overcome a fever if this is what she spent her time doing. She might as well go swimming in the Black Lake naked. Not naked, his mind hastily corrected. Definitely not naked.

The November morning was unusually bright, with yellow sunlight streaming over the mountains, falling on the whitened grounds, lighting them up. It was cool and fresh on his skin as Draco made his way down to meet her.

"Hello," he said, once he got close enough.

Granger looked up at him. "Oh, hello." She turned back to the sky and the lake.

Draco frowned but cleared his face quickly. "Can I join you?"

"Of course."

Sitting beside her, the wetness of the grass seeped through his trousers in no time and he rubbed his arms to try and preserve some heat. His breath solidified as soon as it left his lips. Draco glanced at her and when he noticed she wasn't even shivering, demanded incredulously, "How are you not freezing to death, Granger?"

She rolled her eyes. "An incredible thing called magic, Malfoy."

The use of his surname took him aback. He blinked. Regaining his composure, Draco slipped out his own wand and cast both a drying and warming spell over his body, relishing in the immediate heat that licked his veins. He flashed her a smile. "You're a tricky witch to find, Granger, you know that?"

"It's often the case when said witch doesn't want to be found," replied Granger dryly.

Draco squinted, looking out across the lake. He spoke slowly, quiet and hesitant, not knowing if he had the right to ask, "Have I offended you in some way?"

Granger sighed, finally looking at him for longer than a fleeting second. She said, "No, Draco, you've done nothing of the sort. My brain just overworks itself. What did you call it? Incessant-"

"Prattling," he supplied, then flushed. "What are you thinking about?"

There was something piercing in her eyes, something almost calculating, as she looked at him. Draco didn't know whether to feel reassured or unnerved.

"Something both significant and not."

"How very vague," he rolled his eyes.

Granger smiled a little. "I'm afraid you wouldn't find the contents of my thoughts very entertaining."

"On the contrary," said Draco. "Once, I would've have given my inheritance to know the contents of your thoughts."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Let me guess, during OWLS?"

"To name one such occasion."

He grinned. She scowled and thwacked him.

Rubbing his arm, Draco thought that was probably a good sign; she mustn't have been so averse to touching him.

"How do you feel about Muggleborns and blood purity?" asked Granger abruptly.

Draco flinched. His heart raced in his chest, blood rushing about his body in a panic. He started at her with wide eyes. "Granger, I- where has this come from?"

"Curiosity," she said but she didn't sound curious.

There was a slight crease between her eyebrows, a tension to her lips. Draco wanted to reach up and smooth her uncertainty away. He felt a little bit panicked.

"Granger, you must know I don't see you as my inferior?" he reasoned. "You must."

She bit her lip. Draco budged closer to her, gripping her hand. She was much warmer than him, her magic having thrummed in her veins for longer. She winced a little at his icy touch.

"You're the only thing keeping me going, Granger," he told her in a low, desperate voice. "The only thing. Trust me, please, when I say that I do not maintain the views of my father. I couldn't. Not after everything."

Granger stared at him, searching his face. He could only hope that he showed her what she needed to see. There was panic rearing inside of him, so forceful it bordered on painful, ripping his stability apart, tearing everything he had come to rely on from under his feet. He could not lose it all now, not over this, not when he was changed.

The longer they stared at her, the closer Draco clung to every minute detail of her face. Her eyelashes were congealed and vaguely, he wondered if it was from the cold or because she might've been crying. Her nose was still pink, like she hadn't gotten over her fever and it persisted in the flush of her cheeks and dryness of her lips. Grappling for something, Draco saw a flicker in her eyes. He wondered what she had to worry about. Hadn't he proved his dependency of her? Hadn't he, in the least dignified way possible, with little humility, shred himself of who he was, exposed the very bottom of his soul to her, _for_ her? Wouldn't he humiliate himself, drive himself mad, venture to the very ends of feasibility, do more if only she asked?

Why did she now doubt his feelings for her?

Draco reached out, tentatively because her eyes flicked to follow his hand and back to his face, and held her fingers, squeezing them tightly. Granger faltered. "I don't believe in any of that. I can't because I-" He swallowed. "I only believe in you."

She stared at him, lips parted, and he saw the breath get stolen from her, freezing instantly in the air between them. Granger squeezed his fingers and smiled shakily. Draco forgot how to breathe.

It was as though his reassurance snapped her out of whatever had been concerning her. She cleared her throat, taking her hand away and rubbing her face. His hand went cold without hers to tie him down.

Granger looked at him with her wide eyes. "Do you have the date of your trial yet?" she asked, voice solid and punctual.

The question was so abrupt that he nearly tripped up and told her, but he caught the date on the tip of his tongue, forcing it back with his teeth. He couldn't tell her. Draco wasn't sure why but he knew he couldn't.

"No." It tasted bitter as he swallowed it, threatened to choke him like ash.

She bit her lip. "Oh… I've been-" Granger's nose wrinkled. "I've been reading around the subject a lot, about the Wizengamot, how they work, about similar cases. I haven't found anything yet but I'm still looking."

Draco's stomach flipped. He looked away from her, nodding. "Thank you," the words choked him.

"Marcus Flint got sentenced yesterday," continued Granger. She was watching him. "Twenty five years."

Draco pressed his lips into a line. He had read the headline about that. Flicking through Blaise's Daily Prophet, it had jumped out at him; his former Quidditch Captain looked almost unrecognisable, hair shaved, eyes black, terror soaked in every inch of his face.

"All he did was torture some Muggles." Granger stopped, frowning to herself. She massaged her head. "I say _all_ he did but still, twenty five years for one crime seems a tad excessive. They did it to make an example of him. You know that, don't you?"

Of course he did.

There was an undercurrent to her voice, a warning and she stared at him. He watched the lake, followed every ripple. Despite the cold, there was birdsong, sweet and spring-like. The mountains stood solidly, the air was fresh and moving with the seasons, heavy with the promise of snow. He could not believe that this place was soaked in blood, that students, fighting for both sides, had lived and died here. It all felt like he was in some kind of liminal space, trapped in limbo, between Life Before and whatever waited for him after the 5th June. Looking at Hogwarts, Draco could not fathom how everything had gone so wrong.

"That's all we're good for, isn't it? We're only here to do or die," he said absently, fingers loitering on his forearm. They froze. His eyes refocused and he regarded her. "Doesn't that depress you? To know that all you are is a piece on a chess board that everyone else is moving around for their own sick achievement. That's all you were in the war. It's all Potter has ever been. It's all we are now."

"Then make yourself the Queen," said Granger firmly.

Draco stopped. He raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

She rolled her eyes, but ignored the slight curl of his lip, saying instead, "The Queen is the most powerful piece on any chess board. She's the one in control, the one who has all the other pieces in the palm of her hand. If you're done with your perpetual cynicism and moping-"

"I do _not_ mope-" protested Draco, looking offended at the mere notion.

"-then make yourself the Queen. Refuse to lie down. Take some action."

"Is that how you stayed alive?" he asked after a moment.

Granger faltered then. The sunlight flared in her eyes. "I just figured that if I was going to die, it would be on my own terms."

"If I die, I hope everyone will do me a favour and pretend I was a better person than I was," Draco said glumly.

"You're not going to die," Granger replied, lips pressed into a disagreeable line. She added, as an afterthought, "But hey, it worked for Snape."

"Maybe so. It didn't for Dumbledore."

Granger hesitated. He glanced at her and saw the pain flash across her face.

"He wasn't a bad man," said Granger eventually. There was a heavy sigh in her voice and it made her pause, trying to fathom how she could best put it in a way he would understand. "He just had a lot of power and a lot of pressure forced upon him. He wasn't perfect. He did a lot of terrible things, some I'll never forgive him for. But he always tried to do right. He was consumed with so much guilt that he just wanted to do right. In the end, that's what's important."

Draco stared at her for a very long time. He felt a buzz in his veins. Licking his lips, he laughed a little, and said shrewdly, "You never see anything in black and white, do you?"

Granger's lips quirked, and his eyebrows furrowed together in puzzlement. "Well, how very boring life would be if I did."

Draco looked at her, almost cautiously, almost in surprise. She seemed serene, more relaxed than earlier.

"I think at this point," he said, choosing to humour her, dragging his eyes away and casting them out over the lake, "I'd really like to have a boring life, for once. Maybe my life wouldn't have been such a mess if it was in monochrome."

Granger stared at him. It was a valid point, she supposed, for someone who was such a whirlwind of everything. Draco was like a scribble of various different coloured pens, all entangled lines and haywire explosions, blotches and blank spots, painful fits of never-ending chaos.

"Yes," she said finally, pressing her lips together and smiling at him. "But then you'd miss out on all the colour."

Draco tipped his head sideways to look at her. His lips were tilted in a small smile, and his icy eyes seemed brighter than usual, and soft, bluer like the sky than grey like the lake that simmered at their feet, that blissful shade where the cloud met the water. There was something unguarded about the gesture, like he had done it without thinking. He stared at her with all the intensity of someone staring up at a statue wondering what mortal hands could possibly have carved such beauty, and a bleariness that suggested the sun had risen behind the stone with blinding momentum.

Granger cleared her throat.

Draco blinked as though he had been wrenched out of some reverie that had captured his entire attention. He looked out at the lake. "Well put, Granger."

Her eyes traced him, the sharp decline of his cheekbone to his jaw, the shadows cast by his eyelashes. She drew her knees up, rested her head on them and looked at him sideways.

"What's your favourite colour now?" she asked suddenly.

Draco frowned, glancing at her, then away just as quickly when she met his gaze. "I don't know."

"Well, how fucked up are you feeling at this precise moment in time?" Granger elaborated, mirth tinging her voice, making it lighter.

He paused for a moment, daring to look at her, and noticed that there were flecks of green and gold in her molten eyes. Draco looked back out at the Black Lake, lingering on the way the sunlight burst on its surface and exploded outwards in fractious waves, the way the blue seeped into the black of the deep like ink melting into paper. "Blue," he said.

"Blue," she repeated, testing the word out on her tongue. "Like the blue of the sky or the blue of the lake?"

Draco squinted. "The bit in-between."

"Like the clouds?" Granger questioned.

He glanced at her, then back out at the lake. "That bit, just there," said Draco. Shifting closer, he stretched out his arm, pointing at the thin sliver of blue where the sky kissed the water, at the base of the distant mountains. It simmered like a mirage, glinting almost silver.

"Oh," she said. He felt her breath on his skin and he remembered what her lips had felt like in exactly that place. "It's pretty."

Draco swallowed. Cleared his throat. Shifted away from her. "Uh- yeah."

A content quiet settled between them for a moment or two, it lulled with the lake, cracked with the frost-bitten blades of grass Draco plucked at.

"Are you sleeping any better?" he asked gently.

"Better," she said. She sounded distant. "But still not well."

Draco didn't know how to reply.

"I've tried… potions, and things," continued Granger, pulling a face. "But the blackness always seems to leak through, one way or another. I can't escape it."

"It's not a common cold, Granger," Draco told her. She frowned. "It's not something you can escape with a few medicines and a good night's sleep. It will go one day, but that day won't be today or tomorrow, or anytime soon. It will be when you're finally ready to admit to yourself that what you saw happened, and there isn't any way to change it. And maybe that's terrifying but it's the truth."

"For someone who rejects all form of emotion, you're quite wise, Draco," she said, finally looking at him. His stomach whirled, like a hundred petals were dancing in the wind, fluttering at the sound of the song in her voice and the secretive smile in her eyes.

He shoved the feeling aside and raised his eyebrows. "Maybe it's because I reject all form of emotion."

Granger shook her head. Her curls bounced against her shoulders, tickling her cheeks. "You and I both know that's not how it works."

Draco rolled his eyes and hummed. "Tell yourself what you like, Granger. It won't change what I am."

This made her pause, and that infuriating crease nestled between her eyebrows once more, when she asked, "And what's that?"

"A cold, heartless bastard trying desperately to grapple for any shred of dignity he has left," he informed her, pushing the coil of nerves that writhed in his stomach back down, and offering her a half-smirk. "Before it's too late."

Granger cocked her head. "I don't believe that," she said.

"Which bit?"

"Any of it," she told him and the sincerity in her eyes, the belief she held for him, made Draco want to tear his gaze away but he couldn't. He clung to the resoluteness there. "You're going to push this away Draco, but I think you care quite a bit more than you ever let on. Your heart might be broken but it's still beating. Sometimes, that's all that matters. Sometimes, the shred of decency you're searching for can't be found outside of you because it's already nestled deep in your heart. You just have to believe in yourself enough to find it."

He just stared at her. It was all he could do. She made him breathless and awake all at once. He didn't know if that worked but his heart was beating so hard against his chest, he was sure it would slip through the bone and escape through his ribcage. Draco didn't think that would be such a problem because he knew exactly where it would go.

It would run back to her.


	18. A Christmas Appeal for Slytherins

**Chapter Eighteen- A Christmas Appeal for Misfortunate Slytherins**

The wind whipped at her cheeks, ragging her scarf from where she'd tugged it up over her nose and sending it flapping out behind her. Snow trickled to the ground, crunching underfoot, freezing on her eyelashes. Even so, the cold wasn't enough to douse the excitement growing inside of Hermione's heart as she made her way down the winding path to Hogsmeade; after not seeing them in months, she was finally going to see her boys.

Hermione ducked her head lower, shielding her pink, frost-bitten skin against the wind, and sped up. She had wrote Harry to tell them to meet her at lunchtime, Saturday, in one of the rooms above the Three Broomsticks pub. This matter of theirs was delicate and she did not want to risk prying eyes and listening ears. It would not do.

Slipping inside, the warmth of the pub swallowed her immediately, and she let out a soft sigh, pulling her frosty hat from her head and unravelling her scarf. The room was rowdy, groups of students and patrons alike crowded round small tables, shoved into booths, fires roaring, drinks sliding down the bar. Hermione ran a hand through her hair, casting her eyes over the scene. She noticed the staircase against the very back wall and began to weave her way through the sea of students, skirting back when someone's drink sloshed over her shoes, narrowly missing a man who'd clearly been drinking since breakfast as he swept Madam Rosmerta into his arms, dancing her around, their laughs swallowed by the din. She escaped upstairs, clutching her hat and scarf to her chest, all but running to Room 3. Hermione stole a breath and knocked.

When the door swung open, she felt the years slip away and she was an eleven year old girl again, swaying from side to side on the Hogwarts Express, asking two boys, one with a shock of red hair and explosion of freckles, the other a lightening scar, if they'd seen Neville's toad. Harry stood in front of her, no longer that scrawny boy from under the stairs. He'd grown out his hair, tucked it behind his ears, and a ragged beard clung to his chin. He wore the same glasses, framing his green eyes, and his grin was still that of a child's. Dressed in black slacks, a white shirt and grey waistcoat, his wand looped through his belt, scar faded but still visible, a crack of lightening across his forehead, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, looked grown up, different to how she remembered him last, more sure of who he was in this world.

Despite this, he still let out a little noise at the sight of her, drawing her into him, gasping her name into her hair. Hermione clung to him. Closing her eyes, she breathed him in, relishing in the fact that he still smelled like fresh air from a Quidditch practise and the smoke of the Gryffindor Common Room fire.

"I've missed you," he murmured, voice warm and low in her ear. "I've missed you so much."

"Oh, Harry," she breathed.

"How're you?" he asked, voice muffled in her hair. Hermione squeezed him tighter.

"Oh gosh, I'm fine! I'm fine," she replied, finally letting him go. "How are you?"

Harry grinned. "Good. Better now I've seen you."

"Blimey, and who am I? Great Aunt Muriel?"

Hermione peered over his shoulder. Her face split into a smile and she brushed past Harry, into the room, all but leaping into the open arms of Ron Weasley. He huffed a laugh and she squeezed her arms tighter around his neck. He was broader than she remembered, taller, firmer. His hair was still that shock of red, though it had darkened a little bit, his eyes were lighter, the colour of a sky in spring. Hermione leaned backwards, hands slipping to cup his cheeks and pressed a hard kiss to his forehead. "Ronald."

Ron rolled his eyes, arms draped loosely around her, but his grin and the way he flushed a deep red gave him away. "Honestly," he said, "You'd think we were still First Years not giving our homework in on time!"

Harry laughed, the carefree amusement remaining in his eyes long after the sound dissipated.

"As I remember," said Hermione, moving back to stand by the bed, bunching her scarf to her chest, "you not giving your homework in on time persisted right throughout school, not just First Year."

The three friends stood quietly for a moment. "Gosh, I've- missed you so much," she gasped. Hermione wanted to cry, just seeing them here, in the flesh, put to bed any worries she'd had. Those first weeks back at Hogwarts had been so difficult without having her boys beside her, and then everything with Draco- it was nice to be on familiar ground, even if they looked so much older than when she last saw them, they were still the same, still her boys.

Harry smiled lopsidedly at her. "We've missed you too."

"More than that," said Ron, shoving his hands in his pockets. He wore a flannel over a black shirt and jeans, wand poking out of his boot. He'd cut his hair, she noticed vaguely, it was still shaggy, just shorter, falling over his eyes and brushing his ears. "We've missed your organisation, your brain, your cooking, your help. Really, Mione, it was selfish of you to go back. We could've died on our own!"

Hermione laughed. "But you didn't. I'm so proud of you both, for everything you've done."

The boys shared a fond glance. Having closed the door behind her, Harry moved further into the room, gesturing at her, "Take your coat off. Feel free to make a mess, this is Ron's room."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Charming."

"I'm surprised it's this tidy," she said, grinning when he sent her a scowl.

"We only got here ten minutes before yourself. He hasn't had time to make a mess yet."

Hermione laid her scarf and hat over the chair in the corner of the room, slipping out of her coat too. She felt the warmth envelop her, fold her into the comfortable arms of familiarity. The room was cosy and small, deep red furnishings with a small double bed in the centre and an armchair in the corner next to a circular coffee table. Harry sat on the bed, patting the space next to him. "Come on then, we need a catch up."

They'd already ordered some drinks for the three of them and when there was a knock on the door, Ron all but ran to open it, ears tinging pink as Madam Rosmerta commented on how grown up he looked, handing him the tray and dazzling him with her smile. Harry made a comment before the door was properly shut, causing Ron to flip him the finger, collapsing into the armchair across from them and looking like he had done in their Sixth Year upon accidentally ingesting a love potion. The boys helped themselves to their Firewhiskies, whilst Hermione sipped at her Butterbeer and they laughed like nothing had changed, like they hadn't fought in a war, like they were still children.

"I'm afraid I don't have much to tell you," said Hermione, when Ron asked her what she'd been up to. "I'm sure Ginny keeps you updated enough."

Harry looked a bit guilty at that. He held the bottle between his knees, leaning forward and looking up at her. "She said you weren't eating, weren't sleeping, only really leaving your room to go to your lessons or the library."

She let out a long sigh. That wasn't entirely true. She used to go to the kitchens a lot too, something she knew Harry was aware of since he admitted to keeping an eye on her using the Map. They were details though, small details that made no difference; she _had_ been slow on her recovery but she was recovering, that was what mattered.

Hermione pressed her lips into a line and looked between the two of them. She said, "I'm not going to lie and say that I was coping. I wasn't. But I know you weren't either. It's just the way it is."

"And now?" asked Harry evenly.

"I'm better." She offered him a small smile to prove it.

"So much changed in two months?" Ron's voice was high and sceptical.

Hermione looked at the floor, traced the patterns in the carpet. "A lot has changed." Swallowing, she shook her head and said, "But what about you? I haven't heard anything from you about your work. _Aurors!_ I can't believe that after everything you still get a kick out of putting your lives in danger."

They denied it hastily, but Hermione noticed the way their eyes lit up and her heart sunk a little. What could they possibly find so thrilling about feeling the way they did? She used to think she had that same spark in her, that same desperation for something passionate and whirlwind, the need to feel her pule quicken and her life thrum in her hands. Now, Hermione wasn't sure. Having almost lost everything, she wouldn't dare risk tempting fate again. There was only so much luck to be dealt your way. There were only so many times you could bet your life and win it back. One day, the deck would have to be against you.

Something grew warm in her pocket and Hermione frowned, pulling out the slip of parchment. In her hands, against her skin, it could have been burning but it just tingled. She unfolded it and saw the words appear suddenly, almost as drawling as his voice:

 **I'm bored.**

She huffed a laugh. Glancing at the boys, she noticed they were talking about some case they'd dealt with only last week. Hermione rooted in her coat pocket for a pen, scrawling her reply.

 **Can you seriously not entertain yourself for a few hours?**

She tucked both the paper and the pen under her leg, smiling and nodding as though she was listening. It grew warm again quickly.

 **How long are you going to be? Not long, I hope. You might find I've wasted away and resorted to reading Hamlet.**

Hermione replied: **Dear lord. The horror! Try to survive the torment. I've seen enough death recently.**

The paper was blank for a moment.

 **Haven't we all.**

She felt her throat go dry at that and reached for her Butterbeer, taking another sip.

"Hermione?"

"Hmm?"

"I said is it true you're trying to save Malfoy?" Ron asked, blue eyes wide and searching. There was a faint grin curling his lips, as though he had asked her a joke and he was waiting on edge for her to deliver the punchline. "I couldn't believe it when Harry told me. Said you'd gone barmy. Well, barmier than you were."

Hermione swallowed, clutching her glass tightly. She glanced at Harry, and she could see the curiosity sparking in his own bright eyes. When it was clear she couldn't wheedle her way out of answering, she sighed, winced, then said, honestly because they deserved nothing less, "Yes."

Whatever fledgling amusement that had been blossoming on Ron's face died the moment the affirmation dropped from her lips. His eyebrows shot up his forehead. _"Malfoy?"_ He repeated. "Slimy git from school? Watched his batshit aunt carve into your arm, _that_ Malfoy?"

"I know it's hard for you to understand," began Hermione, absently pulling her sleeve down. Harry noticed. Ron immediately went pale. "But you haven't been at Hogwarts. You haven't seen what the war has done to him. It nearly broke him."

They both just stared at her. She wanted Ron to open his mouth, even if it was to shout at her and try exasperatedly to fill her with sense, because he was never quiet (he hadn't been quiet since the war and she knew it was because he couldn't stand the reminders the silence gave him) and it was unnerving her.

But it was Harry who broke the silence, asking quietly, "Nearly?"

She hesitated. "I think if you're still trying to survive despite it all then you can't possibly be broken. Broken suggests you have nothing left, and Malfoy-" she cut off sharply. "Malfoy has something left."

 _You're the only thing keeping me going, Granger._

Hermione didn't say what he had left. She didn't know for sure. All she knew was that were was something in his eyes when he looked at her, like a drowning man looking at the shore, that made her think there was life in him yet.

"He has something left," she repeated.

 _He has me._

She realised it quite suddenly. All the lengths she had been to, all the things she had done, every night she had wandered through the corridors after that first meeting, just in case he'd been there too and he had been, every time, every moment she'd spent at his hospital bed, every time she'd chased him through the castle, held him to her in some small way, whether it was his face, his hand, his soul. All of it had been to make sure he was okay. Even if he had nothing else in the world to live for, he had her.

The silence seemed to echo around the three of them, and Hermione was glad for it because she was worried that if she spoke, she would reveal something deeper, something she couldn't voice. She could only keep her eyes locked on theirs, imploring against any reservations she saw tempered there. Ron cracked the heaviness, as he usually did, letting out a long, half-amused breath and falling backwards onto the armchair. He shook his head in disbelief.

"You mean to tell me you and Malfoy are friends?"

Hermione just laughed a little, and Harry rolled his eyes, though he was grinning. Everything relaxed around them, falling back into place with their shoulders. She remembered Malfoy's disgust when she'd asked him the same question, and it was enough to bring a small smile to her face.

"Of sorts," she admitted.

Ron let out a short huff of amusement. He looked at Harry incredulously. "Never thought I'd see the day," he muttered.

"Oh, Ronald," Hermione said, and Harry bit back a grin at the familiar tone of her voice. "We're adults now! Of course things have changed."

Harry wrapped his arm around Hermione, and she melted into his side, laying her head against his.

"Changed, my arse," said Ron, watching his friends from his sprawled position with a lazy smile. "More like titled on its axis and bloody spun off balance!"

Hermione smiled a little at that but it disappeared quickly. Swallowing, she said, "I saw Dumbledore."

She felt Harry freeze. "They've put his portrait in the Headmas- _mistress'_ Office. He spoke to me." She stayed where she was, with her head on Harry's shoulder, and chewed her lip because she didn't want to see their reactions to what she was about to say. "He showed me his memory from that night but it was- it was incomplete, taken from after he died. It must have slipped out of him. He told me that Draco Malfoy was redeemable then and he's redeemable now but a dead man, _Dumbledore_ , his testimony wouldn't stand in court. Not after everything he's- not after that bitch Rita Skeeter. That was when I realised that there were two people there that night, on our side."

Hermione pulled away, reaching for his hands and gripping them tightly. "Harry." His jaw was clenched, eyes too serious for someone so young, but he'd mastered that grave expression a long time ago, from the moment he was marked to die. "I know what I'm asking of you. I know it's a lot. I know what you remember of him and-"

 _Mudblood Granger._

His voice had haunted her since Dumbledore had shown her the memory, the past tearing its way into the present, but then, louder, softer, she heard him again, _You're the only thing keeping me going, Granger. I only believe in you._

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment. "But he doesn't deserve to die. Draco Malfoy is a good man. He is my friend and I care about him very much."

There was a quiet in the room, a silence, where Hermione counted the seconds. She didn't want to look at either of them because she knew the weight of what she was asking, but she forced herself to stare into Harry's eyes, to trace the shadow each eyelash made against his cheek, hoping, praying, he was the same, his heart just as big, his desire to make the world a better place just as strong-

He nodded. Hermione didn't think she'd seen it right and she pulled away, squeezing his hands. "What?"

"Okay," said Harry. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ron sit up a bit straighter. He was so resolute; she searched his eyes for any doubt but there was none. "I'll help. I'll give you my memory. We'll find a way to save Malfoy."

Hermione flung herself at him, wrapping her arms so tightly around his neck he had to reach up and hold her elbows for any tighter would surely strangle him. "Oh thank you," she whispered. "Thank you, thank you. I don't expect you to be friends, I don't even expect you to talk to him-"

Harry laughed, detangling her from him, and pushing his glasses further up his nose. Hermione's cheeks were pink and she realised that she was crying slightly. Ron groaned, throwing back his head and said, "Honestly, Hermione. Why couldn't you have just stuck to the bloody Elves?"

 **AN: So I got really emotional writing this chapter. This is the first time, I think, I've ever written Harry and Ron as proper characters and honestly, I miss my boys. Let's just say I can't wait to write them and Draco together… it will be interesting, to say the least. Sorry for the late update! Everything has been a bit hectic really but it's settling. Well, I have final exams soon so it that will be horrendous but I got into uni! To do English Literature and Language! On the plus side though, I don't plan on giving up on this story anytime soon. I have planned it all out and it's looking to be about 45 chapters if I stick to that plan but some might be combined depending on how long they are. I promise to you that this story will be finished and it will end happily. You lot deserve as much. Thank you for all your support and lovely reviews, they truly do mean the world to me.**


	19. Pawns

**Chapter Nineteen- Pawns**

 **Meet me outside.**

 **Bold of you to assume I'm not otherwise preoccupied.**

 **Don't be a smart arse Malfoy. Are you really that engrossed in Haml**

His reply cut her off before she'd even finished writing:

 **I'll be there.**

He didn't look particularly pleased to see her, blond hair as cold and white as the winter sun, black coat buttoned up to his chin, green scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. He grimaced when he got close to her. "What do you want?"

Hermione pursed her lips together and glared. "Aren't you in a good mood today."

"Shakespeare's tragedies don't tend to cheer me up," replied Draco. He paused. "In fact, I think there would have to be something very wrong with me if they did."

Despite herself, Hermione laughed. She couldn't keep the softness out of her gaze when she looked at him and she knew he noticed by the way a crease nestled between his eyebrows.

He cleared his throat. "What did you want anyway?"

Hermione blinked. "Oh," she said. "Yes. That. I need you to wear the Cloak again."

Draco raised an eyebrow.

"Oh? And where exactly do you plan on taking me?"

"Somewhere that will do you some good," she replied, adding almost as an afterthought, "Whether you like it or not."

Draco's frown deepened but he followed her inside the castle to a little alcove where she could retrieve the Cloak from her bag and pass it to him. Hermione memorised his face before he disappeared; it always unnerved her when she couldn't see him.

He cleared his throat when he was fully concealed.

"Let's go then," she said.

They walked in silence, though Hermione wasn't too put off by it. Seeing Draco after her meeting with Harry and Ron had been strange. She noticed things she hadn't before; the colour of his eyes, more like ice than Ron's sky-blue, the point of his cheekbones and chin, the faintness of his eyebrows, the fineness of his hair compared to Harry's thick curls. He was about as tall as Ron, though he was slender where Ron was gangly, composed where Ron might be clumsy. Hermione also noticed the way he looked at her, not softly like Harry, not with the crinkles by his eyes like Ron, but steadily, like she was a jigsaw puzzle he enjoyed working out.

"You're not kidnapping me, are you, Granger?" asked Draco, and Hermione jumped, turning to look at him, before realising she couldn't see him.

She scoffed, shoving her hair from her face. The wind was just as ferocious as it had been that morning which was lucky for them; their words were swallowed by the wind. "Somehow, I don't think that would put either one of us in good stead for your trial."

He fell quiet again at that and Hermione reached out blindly for him. Draco took her hand and she squeezed it.

They made their way into Hogsmeade fairly quickly and despite the cold, Hermione felt a blush stain her cheeks and neck when she remembered the last time they'd been here. She wished they could've stayed in that moment forever. Her conversation with Harry and Ron just an hour ago made her feel, more profoundly than ever, like time was counting down to Draco's day of reckoning. She could only recite a hurried string of prayers in her head that he would be willing to let Harry and Ron help. She couldn't have him lose what little will to live he'd salvaged.

Hermione let go of his hand once they got to The Three Broomsticks, pushing the door open and holding it for a moment. Draco brushed his fingers across her waist as he passed to let her know he was inside. She tingled where he'd touched her.

Moving inside, she shed herself of her coat and hat, holding them to her chest, and made her way to the staircase at the back, trusting Draco would follow her. It wasn't as busy as earlier, with most students having made their way back to the school in the late afternoon for tea. Sure enough, Hermione heard the creaking behind her on the steps as they ascended.

When they got to the first floor, Hermione stopped. "You can, erm, take that off now."

There was a moment when nothing happened and then Draco appeared in front of her. His hair was mussed, his cheeks pink from the cold. He raised a single eyebrow. "Are you going to tell me why you've dragged me to a hotel room? Careful, Granger. I might get the wrong idea."

His usual drawl did nothing to make her feel better. Draco noticed and narrowed his eyes at her.

Hermione stole a second to take a deep breath before she knocked on the door. Beside her, she saw Draco frown. She twisted her hat in her hands, deaf to the question Draco was asking her as the door opened and Harry stood before them.

"Malfoy," greeted Harry, hand on the doorknob, loitering awkwardly. He pushed his glasses up his nose, though they hadn't slid an inch. He straightened all of a sudden, motioning the room, and Hermione could see the Auror in him, "Come in, please."

Draco stood in the doorway. He didn't move. He didn't even look to be breathing. Hermione lightly touched his back and he seemed to jolt into action, moving into the room. Harry closed the door behind them.

"Sit down, Draco," Hermione said quietly.

He looked at her. "I'll stand."

The silence that swallowed the room was quick and sharp, sending a chill to Hermione's bones.

Harry cleared his throat. "You look well," he said.

Draco let out a harsh laugh. "You mean I'm not dead."

"I mean, you look well," replied Harry, a little tensely, sounding like he was talking through gritted teeth.

"All things considering," added Ron, leaning back on the bed. "Still a bit ferrety, though."

Hermione's eyes widened and she levelled a glare so furious at him, he winced.

"No but," he said after a moment and there was a reluctant sincerity in his eyes and the set of his mouth. "It's good to see you alive, Malfoy."

Draco stared at him, eyes wide, the skin of his face pallid and grey, stretched taut over his skull. Words seemed to evade him. He nodded, for longer than necessary, unravelling then tightening the scarf around his neck.

"Here," said Hermione softly, taking a step towards him. "Take your coat off. It's warm in here."

He flinched away from her and she froze. Draco seemed to realise it too. He glanced at each of them evenly. "Why am I here?"

Hermione crossed her arms around her chest, hugging herself. She bit her lip and said, when Harry prompted her with a look, "We think we have a way to prove your innocence."

Draco didn't react for a moment and she wondered if he'd heard her, before his legs gave way and faltered beneath him and he fell to the floor. She rushed forward but Harry reached him before her, hooking his hands under Draco's arms to hoist him back to his feet. Hermione wrapped her arm around his waist still, sitting beside him on the bed. He felt so limp against her, his body heavy against her side.

He was murmuring something, under his breath, a broken murmur. She leaned closer so she could hear it.

" _Why?"_

The only response was quiet, then Ron said, not looking at him, "Because you didn't snitch on us. You knew it was us, at your house. But you still bought us some time. We'd have been dead in an instant if not for you."

Draco shook his head and his face crumpled. Hermione felt each sob rack his chest but he fought to bite them back, keeping silent. She held him closer, resting her head on his shoulder, murmuring in his ear; she missed the look Harry and Ron shared.

"Draco-"

"No," he whispered, his head lolling on hers. He was trembling. "No. I didn't. I didn't. I just stood there, I didn't do anything, I should've done something. I let her do it. Granger, I let her, I just stood there-"

Hermione froze up, her breath stolen from her lips. The material of her jumper felt dense and hot on her sleeve, sticking to the scar, opening it up again.

"-I should've done… I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so-"

"Malfoy," said Harry abruptly, crouching in front of him. His voice was steady and strong and Draco stopped talking to stare at him. "You couldn't have done anything. You couldn't have done a single damn thing. That's not a crime. If you'd have tried, you wouldn't be sitting here now. You'd be dead, do you get that? Don't hate yourself for being alive, Malfoy. Don't. It will only end up destroying you and trust me, I know."

Hermione stared at her best friend, her lips parted, her eyes red, cheeks wet from where a few of her tears had fallen. She sniffed and wiped at her face, glancing away and caught Ron watching her, a strange look on his face, a question on his lips.

She was saved from answering him when Draco muttered, "How? How are you going to prove I-?"

He didn't finish, but Harry knew what he was asking anyway and offered him a smile. It was strained and he looked away for a moment to compose himself before meeting Malfoy's gaze and speaking in a low voice, "I was there. That night. You're not the only one who's used the Cloak to sneak out of Hogwarts." Harry smiled, his lips thin, his eyes trying to be light but darkening. He didn't continue for a few seconds.

"Dumbledore knew," he said quietly, suddenly, staring at Malfoy so the other boy had no choice but to listen to every word, to heed it, to understand. "As soon as we got back to the castle, he tried to get rid of me but- we heard someone coming up the stairs and he paralysed me. I was still under the Cloak. I- I couldn't move, I just watched as you came in and-" Harry closed his eyes. Hermione saw he was shaking, clutching his hands so tightly on his knees that his knuckles turned white. When he started talking, she realised it was anger that had him shaking so. "Dumbledore knew all along what you were doing. Snape was _his_ man and he told Dumbledore everything." Harry swallowed. "Dumbledore was dying."

Malfoy clung to his words like a dying man clutching at one last breath.

"He was dying already. Before our Sixth Year, he'd found and destroyed one of Voldemort's Horcruxes. I remember his hand when he took me to see Slughorn, it- it was black and rotten. Cursed. God knows how he lasted the year, really… That's where Snape came in. Dumbledore asked him to kill him, in the end, so it wouldn't have to be you. He knew the only reason Voldemort had asked you was because it would make you the owner of the Elder Wand and all he had to do then was kill you to get his hands on it. You were just as much a pawn as I was. Dumbledore pushed- he pushed us both around-"

"He tried to do right, Harry," Hermione protested.

"He didn't try hard enough then!" Harry realised he'd raised his voice at her and took a deep breath. "He had no right to keep us in the dark. I- I'm sorry about that day," he said suddenly, looking at Draco again. He was almost pained, guilt staining his eyes. "In the bathroom. I knew you were up to something but I didn't- I didn't even think it was-"

"It's okay," muttered Draco. "I'm sorry I-"

"It's okay," said Harry.

When neither boy said anything else, Hermione wrapped her arm tighter around Draco and said, "Harry was there too, which means he can prove your innocence. He can testify and give his memory of that night for the Wizengamot to watch. It might just work, Draco."

Draco looked at her finally, and she noticed how close they were. She felt his eyelashes flutter, the breath from his lips. His hand tentatively came up behind her to hold her back. "My trial is the 5th June," he said.

Hermione's face slackened. She looked quickly at Harry, then Ron. "Draco. The 5th- you know?"

He nodded, his grip tightening on her. Hermione stared at him, though his eyes remained fixed on the floor. She stroked his side, before unwrapping his scarf and unbuttoning his coat, pushing it from his shoulder and arms, standing up and moving to throw it over the armchair with hers.

"Does anyone want a drink?" she asked suddenly, breaking the silence of the room. She needed one.

"A Firewhiskey sounds great," said Ron, getting to his feet and stretching. "I'll come with you. Harry?"

Harry nodded, but didn't say anything. Hermione asked softly, "Draco, do you want anything?"

He dragged an arm across his face but didn't look up. "Please."

She nodded, and left the room, Ron following behind her. There was a kind of relief when they escaped into the rowdiness of the pub downstairs, weaving their way to the bar.

"Somehow, I doubt you offered to come with me because you wanted to see Madam Rosmerta again," said Hermione, turning to him.

Ron chuckled, scratching his jaw. "Yeah. I didn't think I could offer anything up there."

She bit her lip, ordering four Firewhiskeys when the barmaid addressed her. Ron raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She wasn't usually a drinker.

"I didn't-" he broke off. Hermione levelled her gaze on him. Ron cleared his throat. "I didn't expect him to be so broken."

"He's not broken," she said immediately.

"Sorry, I didn't mean that." He sounded sorry, too, Hermione noticed. She hadn't expected him to be like this. She had expected him to call her mad. "I meant he's not what I expected."

She almost laughed. "No. Me neither."

"How did you- how did you become friends?"

Hermione leaned against the bar, eyes staring off into the distance. She could almost hear her lonely footsteps against the cold stone of the corridor, almost see him on the floor, head bowed, band blinking around his ankle. "I couldn't sleep," she said quietly. "Not for a long time. Nightmares, you know. I kept reliving it all. And then, sometimes, it was things I had dreaded happening but didn't… So I would go on a walk through the castle. That was how I bumped into him." Hermione offered him a small smile. "Draco couldn't sleep either. We made a habit of it."

Ron nodded. "You said he helped you sleep. In your letter. What do you mean?"

She laughed a little at that, brushing her hair from her face and said, still smiling, "He told me to drink Jasmine Tea."

"Are you-" Ron broke off, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, and she felt unease coil in her stomach. He said, in a rush of breath, almost as if he was worried he wouldn't be able to ask it any other way, "Are you and Malfoy dating?"

Hermione's mouth dropped. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks. "No! Gosh, no. I- Ronald, no. We're- we're not… Together. No."

Ron's shoulders relaxed and he grinned a little, relief washing over his face, flooding his eyes. "Blimey, I was gonna say. You did have me worried there for a while, Mione."

"We've only really known each other a couple months," she said, repeating lamely, "Really."

"Yeah," he said, shrugging. "Yeah, you're right. And it's not like you'd ever fancy the bloke, after all he did to you, you know, before."

Hermione paused, then shook her head. "I've forgotten about all that. It's the past. I don't want to dwell there."

Ron nodded slowly, then offered her a lopsided, sheepish smile. "Imagine that. You and the ferret."

She laughed with him, even as her stomach whirled. "Yeah."

"On the upside, he doesn't seem as annoying as he was," said Ron, grinning.

Hermione quirked an eyebrow. "He has his moments."

Their drinks were placed in front of them then, and Ron told the barmaid to charge it to his room. He took the tray, despite her protests, claiming it would do his core some good and she laughed and swatted his arm, nearly sending the glasses to the floor already, and they made their way back to the staircase.

"I hope it works," said Ron suddenly.

Hermione nearly stopped on the steps, wanting to see his face, but she didn't want the drinks to go down her back.

"Yes," she said instead. "So do I."

 _More than anything_ , went unsaid, and she hoped he didn't hear it. _More than passing NEWTS. More than finding my parents. More than anything._

As they approached the door, Hermione heard murmuring and she paused. Ron almost walked into the back of her, but he managed to save the drinks tray in time, asking her incredulously if her legs had stopped working but she shushed him.

Floating through the door, she heard Draco's voice, weak and low, "Why are you helping me?"

There was a long sigh. Someone paced the room. A creak of the bed. Then, Harry said tiredly, "Because I know what it's like to be used. To be thrown away. To not have a choice."

Silence.

"I just don't want to be scared anymore." Draco sounded so small and Hermione felt her heart shatter in her chest. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the door. Ron's hand found her shoulder.

"I know," said Harry. "I know, Malfoy. I don't either."

 **AN: I'm so glad you all liked the reunion in the last chapter! One thing I dislike about Dramione fics is their tendency to make Ron a really bad character who goes out of his way to make Hermione miserable and that's what drives her into Draco's arms. Sure, Fourth Year didn't paint him in a good light but he was only young and dealing with complicated emotions he couldn't understand. So it was really important to me that I did Ron justice and gave him the credit he deserves. I also feel like Harry and Draco have a lot to talk about; their stories are paralleled really nicely but in the end, they were both just pawns expected to die and I find that very tragic indeed.**

 **You guys really are the best in the world. I had to write this next one quickly just because I wanted to give you another chapter! Regarding my last AN, I know 45 seems a lot of chapters but trust me when I say, there is a LOT left. This is Dramione and it is an angsty romance but that doesn't mean I'm sacrificing any plot so there's so much left I can't wait for you to read! To give you a hint, we still have Draco's trial, more fluff, more angst, parents, and what happens after Hogwarts…**


	20. Clean

**Chapter Twenty- Clean**

Hermione crinkled the note in her hands, folding it then unfolding, reading it again even though it was only a sentence and a signature and she'd had it memorised within a minute of opening it. It had arrived for her at breakfast, with the usual morning post, and though her frown had soon disappeared when she recognised the handwriting, she could feel it creeping back between her eyebrows now. Something writhed in her gut. Hermione smoothed down her skirt and walked a little faster.

Stopping before the stone gargoyle and declaring the password she'd been given in the letter, Hermione stepped on the revolving staircase as soon as it appeared, letting it carry her upstairs. She only waited a moment before she knocked.

"Come in."

Pushing the door open, Hermione stepped into the room, stopping in front of McGonagall's desk. She waited silently, still clutching the note in her hands. The Headmistress didn't stop what she was doing.

Hermione glanced above her and noticed that Dumbledore's portrait was empty. She vaguely wondered where he had disappeared off to but forced herself to blink and look away. She cleared her throat. McGonagall still didn't look at her.

"Professor?" she prompted. "You wanted to see me?"

She didn't respond immediately, getting to the end of the essay she was marking. Only then, did she sheath her quill, rearrange her glasses on her nose and organise the papers in front of her into a neat pile.

"Miss Granger," the Headmistress said. "Did Mr Malfoy enjoy his trip out yesterday?"

Hermione's mouth dropped. Suddenly, she felt like a First Year again, answering the stern eyes and sharp tongue of her Head of House. McGonagall finally looked at her, fingers folded on the desk.

She fumbled for an explanation. "Professor, I-"

McGonagall held up a hand, silencing her instantly. Hermione closed her mouth.

"I hope you're aware of how foolish the pair of you were," she said irritably. In her anger, her accent thickened and her voice grew high. "Mr Malfoy is under strict supervision pending his trial, as you know! Sneaking out of the castle could very well have damaged his case."

The guilt flooded her stomach, making her heart feel heavy and dead in her chest. She closed her eyes. She never forgot anything, especially something as important as this- how could she forget about his band?

You were so caught up in helping him, you damaged his chances further.

Hermione let out a shaky breath. "Professor, I- It was me. Draco had nothing to do with it. I needed to take him somewhere, it was very important and I know, in hindsight, that nothing can be as important as his trial but that's exactly why-"

"Miss Granger," McGonagall began but Hermione didn't let her finish.

"I'm trying to help him too, Professor. We went to go meet Harry and Ron and we- we think we might have a case. A solid one, too. Something that could stand up against the Wizengamot. I know that doesn't mean anything now, not if I've ruined everything-"

"Miss Granger," said the Headmistress loudly, rising from her seat. Hermione fell silent. McGonagall pursed her lips. "The last time Mr Malfoy visited me to have his band returned, I took the liberty of changing it so that any interruptions would alert not the Ministry, but myself. Somehow, upon knowing you had Mr Potter's Cloak in your possession, I doubted very much that Mr Malfoy would remain in the castle as he should."

Hermione couldn't help but let the relief swallow her. The Ministry didn't know. They didn't know.

"It is beside the point, of course," continued McGonagall. "I'm disappointed you would act so rashly, Miss Granger. As I recall, that was always Mr Potter and Mr Weasley's influence. You could have gotten Mr Malfoy into serious trouble. I presume you know that, Miss Granger?"

She had the decency to look chastised. Hermione ducked her head and traced the buckles of her boots, her cheeks flushing. "I'm sorry, Professor," she replied quietly. "It was never my intention to-"

"I know, Miss Granger. Perhaps you and Mr Malfoy should consider yourselves lucky that I anticipated your blatant disregard for common sense. You are dismissed."

Hermione blinked. She nodded, murmuring her thanks quietly and heading for the staircase.

"Professor," she stopped in the doorway. She swallowed. "I have a plan. For Draco."

McGonagall just smiled, her lips softening and curling a little more widely than usual. "Miss Granger, having known you for seven years, I would be severely disappointed to hear you didn't."

Hermione found herself biting back a smile, and she ducked her head in a nod, slipping out of the room with a quiet, "Goodbye, Professor."

 **oOo**

"Malfoy, it's not funny!" she huffed. It didn't stop his laughter. If anything, he clutched his stomach harder, rolling sideways onto his cushion. They were sitting in the Room of Requirement, on opposite settees. She'd just told him about her meeting with McGonagall, which, much to her chagrin, he seemed to find terribly amusing. Hermione scowled at him and lobbed a pillow at his head.

That sobered him up.

"I thought you'd be annoyed with me," Hermione bit her lip. "I could've ruined everything-"

Draco rolled his eyes. "You're being melodramatic, Granger. Nothing happened. McGonagall saved our arses. Leave it."

"But-"

He threw the pillow back at her, hitting her square in the face, muffling her protests. When she hugged the cushion to her, watching him quietly, Draco sighed and admitted, "I knew she'd done something to it. The spells she used were different to the ones the Auror had put on. I assumed she was giving me more space to roam. Don't blame yourself, Granger. I put on the Cloak."

They hadn't spoken about their meeting with Harry and Ron since it had happened, over a week ago. Every time Hermione had tried to bring it up, Draco would divert the conversation with his old snark, drawling something offensive that would rile her up into an argument that she forgot about her question in the first place. She'd spent more than enough time with him to know he was deflecting.

Draco sighed heavily, pushing himself up and moving to sit beside her. He stared at her hand, then haltingly reached out to rest his palm over her knuckles. His fingers curled around the side of her hand. His thumb almost caressed her skin but he stopped himself. Hermione watched him, not careful enough to hide her surprise.

"I-" he began. "I can't really begin to express my appreciation for everything you're trying to do."

He spoke hesitantly, stopping and starting, forcing the words out without looking at her.

Hermione swallowed. Shrugged. "It's nothing."

The look Draco sent her implied she was stupid. She smiled bashfully.

"Honestly," she said, looking down at their hands. She chewed at her lip then slowly twisted her hand in his, locking their fingers. Draco's hand followed hers, and this time his thumb dragged along the side of her index finger. His skin was rough and calloused. Hermione looked at him and found him enraptured by their hands in her lap. "It really is nothing, Draco."

His eyes shot to her. He shook his head. "It's not nothing, Granger. It's everything to me."

Hermione licked her lips. Draco's eyes traced the action.

"Are you staying for Christmas?"

A bitter smile twisted his face. "I have no where else to go."

"Me neither," she said, resting her head back against the settee. Her curls splayed between them. Draco mimicked her, and they stared at one another. He neglected to point out that she had Potter and Weasley and all of Weasley's clan who would welcome her with open arms and hearts at Christmastime, just in case she changed her mind.

"What do you want to do after Hogwarts?" he asked instead.

Hermione frowned. Her eyes flitted around whilst she thought. "I'm not sure."

Draco scoffed. "You could be anything you choose to be and you're not sure?"

"I used to want to work in the Ministry," she said. "For the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures-"

"Don't tell me this is about that Spew thing you were always going on about!"

Hermione scowled at him, squeezing his fingers threateningly. He winced. "First of all, it's S.P.E.W. Secondly- the whole point of the Department is vastly misguided! It implies the archaic belief that magical creatures don't have any rights to protect them and it's up to wizards to control and regulate their exposure to the Wizarding World."

Draco wrinkled his nose. "House Elves want to be controlled, Granger. It's in their culture to serve."

"It's not only that, Draco," she continued. "It's also the fact that the best Defence teacher we've ever had was forced to resign because of prejudices that are actively encouraged by the Ministry. Werewolves are victims of much more than their infliction. They're socially excluded and it's wrong. They are still wizards and witches. They still deserve a high quality life."

Draco watched her, eyes drawn to the spark in her eyes, the sudden liveliness of her hair as it crackled with her passion, the heaving of her chest as she spoke. There was a small frown pulling her eyebrows together and a pout in her lips. He noticed the red skin along the seam of her mouth where her nerves and insecurities had nibbled away.

"Lupin was the best Professor Hogwarts has ever had. Not just for Defence," said Draco. When Hermione blinked at him, he shrugged. "I guess lessons with the Carrows really put things into perspective."

Hermione's breath tickled his cheeks when she exhaled. "So I've heard. Neville didn't go into detail. He didn't have to." She regarded him for a moment. "It must be hard," she said. "Being back here."

Draco frowned. He looked down at their hands because it was easier and played with her fingers, thumb still brushing along her skin. "I imagine it's hard for everyone, Granger. Their classmates died here."

Hermione was still staring at him and he knew that wasn't what she meant but she didn't push. She just hummed and said, "I suppose you're right."

She shifted suddenly, moving further up on the settee but it just brought her face closer to Draco's. He swallowed and resisted the urge to move away, to wrench himself from her, from her fingers, her wide eyes, the fan of her breath. He was too close. He told himself to move. He noticed the freckles on her nose were like the faintest constellations in a clear night sky.

"This place used to be haunted to me," whispered Hermione. Her grip on his fingers felt tighter. Her grip on his soul was tighter still and he clung to her every word. "That's why I couldn't sleep. That night. Why I still can't sometimes. No where was untouched. I nearly didn't come back, you know. I wanted to finish my education but without Harry and Ron- and all things considering... but I knew I had to."

She smiled slightly, shook her head and her curls went flying. "From the moment I received my Hogwarts letter, I'd looked forward to coming here. I counted down the days, tried to wish them away, and then it was everything I'd ever dreamt of and more. Magic was everything to me. I knew that I couldn't throw it away. Even after everything- Hogwarts was still my home here. My place in the Wizarding World.

It didn't feel like that at first. It felt spoiled. But it's starting to feel like home again."

Hermione smiled slightly, almost nervously, and Draco felt his stomach flip. He clutched her fingers tighter. Hogwarts wasn't home to him. It never had been but he was starting to think that home wasn't a place, it was a person. It was the person you felt safest with. The one who made your heart settled and your head quiet. Draco realised it quite suddenly and it didn't shock or scare him. Hermione Granger was home to him and he'd never felt safer than in the warmth of her smile, their fingers entwined, her dreams floating in the space between their lips.

 **oOo**

Christmas morning dawned cold and bright. The light from the sky fractured through the Black Lake, catching on the kelp and the algae, breaking through the murkiness to bathe Draco's room. He woke early, but his body felt settled and his eyes didn't sting. Numbly, he rubbed at his face. He must've slept well. Lethargy still hung on his bones and his head didn't bang like it usually did. It took a moment for it to register that it was Christmas.

He hadn't been looking forward to it. Normally, Draco would love the Christmas holidays; it meant going home, seeing his mum again, the Manor decked in silver decorations, trees the size of pillars in every corridor and entryway, and fairy lights that twinkled like real fairies. The magic of Christmas had died the moment the Dark Lord had set up camp in the same Manor Draco had always called home and Christmas was sacrificed as a Muggle tradition. The Manor had been empty ever since but Draco sometimes dreamed of the way it once was, of its former glory.

Staying at Hogwarts would be easier than going back there, he knew. Not that he had a choice. But Blaise was staying so he wouldn't be alone. Hermione would be there too.

Draco dragged a hand down his face. He didn't know what time it was but there were still shadows in his room and creeping along the floor of the lake. He swung his legs out of bed and summoned his robe, hoping the Common Room would be empty.

It wasn't.

"Well, aren't you in the festive spirit."

Draco grimaced, scratching at his head and moving over to the centre of the Common Room where the fire was crackling and Blaise sat with his back to him. He skirted past the giant silver Christmas tree and collapsed opposite his friend. "How'd you know it was me?"

"You have a signature stomp," replied Blaise, rolling his neck.

Draco glared into the fire. "I do _not_ stomp."

Still, he saw his friend's smirk flicker orange. Blaise chuckled and threw something at him. If it hadn't have been for Draco's Seeker experience, the object would have likely collided with the side of his head but he caught it just in time.

"Moved on to abusing me physically now, Zabini?" he scowled, voice biting.

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Merry Christmas to you too, Draco."

Draco wordlessly summoned the present he'd bought for Blaise. It was a bottle of his friend's favourite French whiskey. It landed in his lap and he held the neck out for Blaise to take it.

He shook it conspiratorially, holding it to his ear. "My, I wonder what it could be."

Draco narrowed his eyes but turned his attention on the box in his hands. It was wrapped neatly in emerald paper, the tucked edges exposing Blaise's pedantry. Mercilessly, he slid a finger along the seam and snapped it open. The paper fell away.

The box was about the size of his palm, ornate and green, with silver embellishments. A little silver dragon danced on the lid. Draco frowned and opened the box, moving to dip his fingers in the balm.

"I wouldn't if I were you," said Blaise. His eyes were fixed on him. "It's very expensive stuff. Don't waste it."

"What is it?" Draco asked.

Blaise put the whiskey to one side and leaned back, regarding him with black eyes. "It's invisibility balm. It covers up anything. I'm not entirely sure it's legal magic. It took me a while to find it and a pretty penny to buy."

Draco froze. He looked down at the gel. He stole a breath before tempering his voice. He asked, "It covers anything?"

Blaise never faltered. "Anything."

Draco glanced at him. Within the same second, he placed the box beside him, unbuttoning the cuff of his shirt and rolling back the sleeve until it rested at his elbow. The Dark Mark was garish as ever, sickly against his pale skin, stained. It almost looked to be weeping. The snake writhed in the skull. Draco felt his throat go dry. His hands shook.

"Are you sure?" he asked. He had to. He couldn't get his hopes up, but he felt the giddiness and anxiety rising in his chest regardless.

"I was guaranteed," replied Blaise.

Draco nodded. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Flexing his fist so tightly his knuckles turned white, he slathered gel on his fingers and hesitated only for a moment, when the flash and heat of the pain he remembered made him flinch. Then, he covered the Mark.

Nothing happened straight away. The gel was clear but his Dark Mark was still visible. Draco swallowed his disappointment. It almost choked him.

He felt the tingle first, the tell-tale caress of magic, and watched raptly as the gel soaked into his skin, blending into the whiteness until his forearm was empty. Draco's breath fell from his mouth like a sob.

"Blaise-"

He screwed his eyes shut, pressing his lips together so he wouldn't cry.

"It won't always be winter," said Blaise. "You can't stomp about in your long sleeved emo robes forever."

Draco couldn't even laugh. "Blaise, I-"

"Need some whiskey," his friend finished for him, transfiguring two nearby flower vases into glasses and cracking open his bottle. He poured the whiskey, handing Draco a glass. He downed his own in one, letting out a noise that was torn between revulsion and satisfaction. "Ah, that's the stuff."

Draco swirled his glass, staring at the place on his arm that had once held the Mark, the condemnation of his life's work. _Not anymore_ , he thought. _I'm clean. Clean._

"Thank you," he said. He'd like to think that his voice didn't break but even if it did, Blaise paid it no mind.

"Don't mention it."

He refilled his glass and held it over the gap between them. Draco took his own and clinked it with Blaise's.

"Merry Christmas, Draco," he reclined, downing his whiskey again.

"Merry Christmas, Blaise."

 **oOo**

There weren't many students staying behind for Christmas, though Draco could hardly bring himself to be surprised. It wasn't the place he would choose to stay. Still, McGonagall had made sure to deck the Great Hall out like the good old days. There was a towering Christmas tree behind the teacher's table, brushing the ceiling, twirling in ribbons the colour of all the Houses and leaning from the weight of the baubles at each spindle. Smaller trees lined the walls, framing the two fireplaces which roared merrily, swathed in holly wreaths and adorned with mistletoe that would creep across the air to catch unsuspecting victims, locking them in place until they surrendered a kiss. The charmed ceiling was a milky white and snow fell delicately, catching on shoulders, table and floor before melting in a second. Draco had to admit it was beautiful. It almost took his breath away.

He almost forgot about the massacre that had taken place there.

There was only one table set and lavishly endowed for Christmas dinner, and even then it was only half full. The Professors that had deigned to stay over the holidays were dotted amongst the students, with McGonagall at the head. Draco sat at the opposite end. He didn't miss the looks people gave him, nor the way those closest to him shuffled further down the bench. Absent-mindedly, he tugged at his sleeve.

He wasn't alone for very long when someone dropped on his right, huff flying from her lips, hair bouncing around her shoulders, tickling his cheek. Draco shot to look at her.

"What are you doing?" he demanded in a rush of air.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, pausing. "Well, Merry Christmas to you too!"

Draco's eyes flitted down the table. People were watching. Blaise would be along soon. "Granger-"

She seemed to follow his line of thinking, rolling her eyes and exclaiming, "Oh honestly, Draco. Harry and Ron know and they didn't care. Why should we care what anybody thinks?"

He swallowed and started to help himself to food. Hermione smiled, a little secretively, next to him. She pulled a string bag from the floor, digging her arm in right to the elbow, before retrieving a suspiciously book-shaped present, and offering it to him.

"Merry Christmas, Draco," she said quietly.

The rest of the school dropped away. Draco just stared at her. He wet his lips and diverted his gaze, taking the present and holding it on his lap for a moment. The edges weren't as neat as Blaise's but they were folded precisely, stuck together by something Muggle presumably. The paper was icy blue with little, smiling snowmen.

A smile tugged at his lips.

"Granger," he began. He looked up at her then and the words stopped on his tongue. She was looking at him so passionately, with pink cheeks and wet lips and wide eyes. Fresh snow laced in her hair then disappeared. "I- Thank you."

Hermione beamed. "You're welcome," she replied softly.

Draco reached inside his robe, taking out the present he'd shrunk earlier, not knowing when he'd get chance to give it her. He handed it to her and she gasped.

"You didn't have to-" she began but he cut her off.

"Granger," he said, mock patiently. "Even if you hadn't gotten me anything, I would've given you this. If only to stop your nattering."

Whilst Hermione sat, stunned and quiet, Draco unwrapped his present, running his hand over the cloth bound cover and smiling slightly. _Shakespeare's Comedies._ He shook his head a little, finger slipping down the spine.

"I thought that these might cheer you up instead," Hermione admitted. She sounded almost nervous. "His tragedies can get a bit depressing after a while. I don't know how many you've read but _Much Ado about Nothing_ is my favourite-"

"Granger," Draco interrupted. "Stop talking and let me thank you."

She shrugged, looking away. Her gaze dropped to the present in her hands. Nimbly, she ripped the paper and pressed her lips together when she saw what it was. Her eyes shone.

"Draco," she breathed. "You didn't have to."

He shrugged, suddenly feeling very hot. "You said you still weren't sleeping well. I owled the Manor to ask for the ones my Mother used. I thought it might be because the House Elves weren't making it right."

Hermione flushed. She clutched the box of Jasmine tea leaves closer to her chest. "Don't blame the House Elves!"

Draco groaned. "Don't start on your Christmas Spew appeal."

Her nostrils flared. "You know it's S.P.E.W."

There was a giveaway twitch at the corner of his lips but before he could retort, Blaise slid into the seat across from him. "Granger," he greeted.

"Zabini," she replied smoothly, cutting up her bacon. "Merry Christmas."

"And to you."

Draco didn't comment on this sudden civility between the two. He could only gape at them. Hermione slyly shot him a look out of the corner of her eye.

"Oh honestly, Draco," she said. "Close your mouth. You'll catch flies if you don't."

"Yes, Draco," Blaise added, an irritating twinkle in his dark eyes that made Draco's face twitch for an entirely different reason. "It's also terribly unattractive. You look like a fish."

Hermione laughed and Draco momentarily forgot his annoyance. The snow continued to fall from the ceiling, melting on his shoulders, catching in his eyelashes. Some landed on the tip of Hermione's nose and he reached over without thinking to wipe it off, forgetting it was magic and would fade anyway. She hesitated, and Draco stopped, his hand still outstretched between them. He could feel Blaise watching him. It felt like everyone was watching him. But then Hermione's face split into a smile and she reached up and squeezed his fingers, bringing their hands under the table, still loosely strung together, before turning back to her dinner as though it was nothing. As though she wasn't the loveliest Christmas present he'd ever received.

* * *

 **AN: Hiya guys! Thank you so much for all your lovely comments recently! I was pretty rubbish after the last few updates and this has been on standstill for what feels like a very long time in comparison. I have good news! My original book that I'm writing is finally starting to take shape! I'm only on 20,000 words at the moment but these first 8 chapters have been rewritten a few times and I've finally got a proper plan- I've always had my plot, it just needed extensively bulking up. I'm very excited about it. It's bizarre- I'm so in love with my characters, they feel so real to me that I've already cried about what's going to happen! As you have probably noticed, I'm a sucker for angst. I think there is something really beautiful, not in suffering but in mending yourself in the aftermath. I'll try keep you updated on it but I really feel connected to this book, like it's a part of me that I've funnelled out from my soul and onto paper (or Microsoft Word at this point, but that doesn't sound nearly as poetic!). Anyway, I suppose this is a bit more "filler" than we've had in a while but I hope you like it nevertheless** **J**


	21. Flares in the Darkness

**Chapter Twenty One- Flares in the Darkness**

Someone in Slytherin- Draco could probably hazard a guess who- had decided that in a grand gesture of inter-House relations and post-War euphoria, (and a blatant attempt to get the House of the Snakes back into everyone's good books), it would be a bright idea to throw a New Years' Eve Party in the Common Room. He had hoped to avoid it but after climbing into bed immediately after dinner and settling down to sleep, Blaise had barged his way in, yanked the covers back and told him that he was moping again and Granger wouldn't be happy.

At that point, Draco had pulled a face and asked why he should care whether or not his moping made Granger happy but Blaise had silenced him with a look that he knew he couldn't argue with and shoved a bottle of firewhiskey at him, claiming he needed a bit of liquid courage. So he got dressed in his black slacks, sipping at the alcohol to soothe his trembling hands, brushed his hair with an actual comb and not his fingers like he had gotten into the habit of doing, rolled his sleeves to his elbows and applied the gel. He even allowed a moment of vanity. Draco hadn't looked at himself in the mirror for a long time; he could barely remember what he looked like as he braced his hands on the sink, breathing heavily.

In.

Out.

In.

Stealing the courage to look up-

His chin looked pointier than usual, his cheeks sallower and sharper, his eyes sunk into the pale skull of his head. His hair was white and sterile. But his left forearm was just as pale as the rest of him. He swallowed and his throat bobbed, the chords of his life straining. Closing his eyes, Draco leaned his forehead against the cool surface of the mirror. His breath fogged the glass, bouncing back at him. When did it all go so wrong? When did it get so messy that he couldn't even recognise himself?

Granger's voice floated back to him. _Make yourself the Queen._

He drew himself up to his full height. His knuckles were as white as the porcelain. Draco stole another breath before turning away, leaving his dormitory and ascending into the party.

It was raucous, a steadfast whirlwind of booziness and gaiety, a crescendo of hot breath that burned throats, brief snippets of dreams transcending the very limits of human capability, and elaborate acts they would no doubt regret come morning.

And it was thrilling.

Bodies grasped and writhed in time to the music, sweat crystallising flicks of eyebrows and cuts of jaws. The light was low, flickering every other second with a ripple from the lake, or maybe it was the hood of Draco's eyes from the second firewhiskey he'd had before braving the party that made the room and the people in it so dark. Though the party was technically only open to Fifth Years and older, he knew from their trembling arms and wide eyes that some younger years must have crept in. He stood, rooted to the steps for a long time. The music pounded within him, drum beat ricocheting against his ribs each time he rattled a breath. He felt suffocated by it.

He had never seen life act so freely and decadently as everyone, almost desperately, tried to forget the year and look ahead to the dawn of a new one-

It was too much. The band felt heavy around his ankle, dragging him down, chaining him to the past.

Draco closed his eyes. Everything fell away, went silent.

"Draco!"

He opened them, and saw Blaise through the crowd, beckoning him over. Sighing, he let himself be swallowed by the pulse of the party. Draco pushed through throngs of people, ducking under loose limbs and sidestepping stumblers. A girl threw herself at him, laughing that damp laugh that warmed his face through. Her hands were like claws, clutching onto his skin and shirt as though she would melt if she let go. Draco doubted she could see who it was she was touching, eyes rolling back into her head, and he took pity on her. Disentangling her as best he could, murmuring that she perhaps should stop now, but she ignored him, and let herself get swept into the arms of another boy who would no doubt take a very different approach.

He used to be that boy, he thought numbly. He used to thrive at being the centre of attention, the one everyone had their eyes on. Now, Draco wished the ground would swallow him whole. Or the lake would break the windows and drown them all.

"Draco!" Blaise grabbed his shoulder, pulling him close so he could yell in his ear. "I told you it would be good! Didn't I tell you!"

He nodded half-heartedly, eyes flitting about. Blaise laughed. He leaned his head closer. "She's in the corner. By the lake."

Draco whirled round to frown at him. "Who?"

"Granger."

His face drained of colour and he said quickly, "What are you talking about?"

But Blaise just smiled, pushing him away, thrusting another firewhiskey into his hand, as though he could tell he needed it, and said, "Don't tempt me into dancing with her to prove to you what I already know. Neither one of you would enjoy it."

He disappeared then, wrenched back into the throng of people, most likely finding some unassuming witch to pester instead. Draco glanced over at the lake and sure enough, he recognised the bushy head of hair against the bluish green. His feet were headed in her direction before he could really think about it.

"Don't let Blaise see you," he drawled, leaning against the glass beside her. She jumped. "You're having far too much fun and he just threatened to dance with you if you didn't stop it."

Hermione grimaced, rubbing her temples.

"Heaven forbid. I was supervising, not participating," she pointed out. "I've already had to escape God knows how many people trying to dance with me or braid my hair! Why do drunks have to be so touchy-feely?"

"I see," said Draco, taking a sip of his whiskey. It burned his throat but it was oddly warming against the cold perspiration of the window against his back. "And have you always been such a prude?"

Hermione opened her mouth, most likely to express her affront, before he held up a finger and said, "Ah. No need to answer that. Of course you have."

She scowled and snatched his drink out of his hand, downing it in one. Or trying to. It dribbled down her chin and took her a moment to swallow it and even then, her face twitched to hide her distaste. Draco raised an eyebrow. "Has that cured your holier than thou propensity?"

Hermione scoffed, shoving the nearly empty bottle back at him. He finished it off, tasting her lip-gloss on the cold glass. She shoved her curls away from her face.

"Stop taking pride in being an arsehole," Hermione said dismissively and she missed the way Draco's eyebrows raised. "It's boring. You're not intimidating anyone."

"Not even you?" He asked. She looked at him as though he'd just told her a very bad joke, and she was waiting for the punchline to end.

Hermione said, "Especially not me."

Draco was close to her now, his dark eyes steady and boring into her. It must have been the alcohol, shooting through his veins like electricity, that drew the words from his mouth and pulled him even closer to her. He murmured, "Then why have you got goosebumps, darling?"

Hermione looked at him, eyes wide, lips parted. She sucked in a breath. "It's cold."

She was sweating a little.

Draco smirked. He ducked his head closer, so his lips were brushing her ear. "Then why are you burning up?"

She swallowed and whispered his name and it made his brain a little bit fuzzier. Her eyes darted. Quick as a flash, her hands gently wrapped around his wrist, thumb drawing invisible lines. A frown marred her face. "Your Mark..?"

His smirk dropped. He wrenched his arm away from her and felt instantly cold.

Hermione looked at him. "How did you-? Is it a Glamour?"

Draco swallowed. "No."

He noticed her lip tremble as she played absentmindedly with the hem of her sleeve. She was wearing a long sleeved green dress, silk and simple, ending just below the knee. Granger had even bothered to do something with her hair. She looked pretty, he thought, and he had half the mind to tell her before he bit his tongue. Her fingers were shaking slightly, ghosting over her left forearm.

He realised why quite abruptly. Blinked. Draco said, "I'll show you. If you want."

Hermione's eyes widened and she nodded. He looked a little closer and saw the smudge of mascara under her eyes and the blush of her cheeks. She looked tired. He didn't know what compelled him but he offered her his hand. When she stared at it, Draco felt his fingers curl into his palm, and he was about to draw it back hastily when she stopped him. Her hand flitted to his, fingers threaded through his; Draco couldn't tell if it was her pulse or his that jolted in his palm.

He led her back through the crowd, ducking his head so no one would look him in the eye. Hermione squeezed his fingers when he nearly lost her in a group of drunk Ravenclaws, and he tightened his grip on her hand.

Somehow, they managed to escape to the stairwell, descending into the shadows without so much as a glance behind them. Draco led her to his room, right at the very bottom of the curved staircase, where all the Eighth Year chambers were, muttering his password. The metal snake slithered through the lock, and the door clicked open. Draco disentangled their hands, leaving her in the bedroom whilst he went to retrieve the gel. He caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror, and paused.

His hair was undone already, his skin flushed, his heart racing in his throat. His fingers shook as they pressed against his neck, feeling the fluttering jolt of his pulse. He looked alive, more alive than he had done in a while. He felt it too.

Draco turned away and went back to Hermione. She was by the window, hand pressed against the glass, staring into the lake with slack lips and wide eyes. A little fish darted by her face, and she laughed. He froze in the doorway.

If she hadn't turned and smiled at him, he would've probably been content to stay there and watch her for a while longer, watching the green waves wash across her face, dance along her skin. Instead, he moved towards her, handing her the gel.

Hermione frowned, turning away from the water. She read the label first and he rolled his eyes. Draco took it off her impatiently, unscrewing it.

"Give me your arm, Granger."

She hesitated. Her hand flitted to her sleeve again. He saw the hollow of her throat as she swallowed. Draco pressed his lips together and said, more gently, "Hermione, please, will you give me your arm?"

She searched his eyes for something, though he wasn't sure what, or if she found it, only that it made him hold his breath for the second it took before she held out her arm. Draco dropped his gaze to it. He reached with trembling hands to roll the sleeve of her dress back. He remembered the moment his Aunt had carved into her; if his nightmares were bad, he could see the pinkness of her flesh, smell the metallic tang of her blood. Draco could still hear her screams.

Bile settled in his throat as, inch by inch, the crude scar was exposed. His thumb swept over it and Hermione winced; it felt jagged and crude against the softness of her skin. Draco wet his lips and stole his nerve, slathering the cool gel on his fingers before rubbing it on her arm. Hermione hissed and he paused.

The gel had never hurt him before, though he supposed he was always covering a tattoo, not a scar. Her face was screwed up, lips pursed but twitching. She was crying slightly. Draco's hand faltered.

"Hermione," he murmured. "Can I-?"

"Yes," she choked.

He continued, only stopping when the gel covered the scar and it had faded completely into the untouched expanse of her skin. Hermione inhaled shakily. Draco realised he was still holding her hand and when he meant to drop it, instead, he lifted it and pressed a kiss to her wrist. Her heart leapt under his lips.

"Draco," whispered Hermione.

He looked at her from under his lashes. She was watching him, eyes pink and wet, eyelashes congealed, cheeks flushed. When she didn't pull away or say anything more, Draco moved his lips to her palm, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the skin and feeling his heart race when Hermione's breath hitched. Tilting her hand, he pressed a kiss to the tip of each of her fingers, then took hold of her arm and softly kissed her invisible scar.

He felt her other hand reach up and cup his jaw. Draco looked at her. He wondered what he looked like _to_ her, whether the desperation was palpable in his eyes, whether she could see the way he clung to her, see that every shred of his dignity lay at her feet. Draco wondered if she could see his soul, bared out for her, or maybe his heart, which he now knew, irrevocably, was hers for the taking.

He tried to stop his face from crumpling, from showing Hermione how broken he felt. Draco pressed his forehead against her arm, clenching his eyes shut.

"Draco," she said. He shook his head.

Vaguely, Draco could hear the countdown begin in the Common Room above them, the final moments of the year dying, readying itself to give birth to a new one. Hermione said his name again, more insistently, and he forced himself to stand up straight and finally look at her. She cupped his face with both hands and his eyes fluttered shut.

"Draco," she whispered. The light from the lake still rippled across her skin, catching on her tears. He wiped her cheeks with his thumbs, holding her jaw. Hermione leaned into his touch. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but no words came out, her chest heaved, before she swallowed and smiled. Draco thought her smile looked somewhat sad. "Happy New Year."

"Hermione," he murmured, brushing her hair over her shoulders. His eyes never left hers. Draco leaned in closer. He could count her freckles from here, see the scabs on her lips where she'd chewed incessantly. He wanted to say so much more to her but he just said, "Happy New Year," and kissed her.

It wasn't planned. He hooked his hands under her jaw, thumbs drawing lazy circles along her cheeks. Draco felt like he was burning. Hermione was everywhere; her hands at the back of his head, fingers in his hair, chest pressed against his, and he needed her closer, closer. Draco kissed her like he needed her to breathe, gripping her face with one hand, his other wrapping around her waist. His lips ravaged hers, teeth raking, tongue coaxing, pulling her closer. Her lips were wet and the kiss tasted of tears and chaos. Their noses bumped. Draco ran his tongue along her bottom lip, exploring her mouth when she let him, swallowing her little sigh. Her fingers ran through his hair, pulling slightly, and he groaned, kissing her harder.

But then he slowed down. He caressed her face, tangled his hands in the curls at the back of his neck, making love to her mouth. Hermione's arms looped around his waist, hugging her to him. Draco kissed her languidly, savouring the taste, relishing in the way she kissed him back like she needed him too.

There was a sudden noise and they jolted apart. Draco leapt across the room. Appearing as if from thin air, a scroll hovered before them. He felt Hermione's eyes on him but he couldn't look at her. He would recognise the black seal anywhere.

The seal broke itself and the parchment unravelled, revealing a letter addressed to him. Draco felt his stomach whirl. Before he had time to read it, the scroll folded, forming lips and eyes, and began its announcement.

 _"Master Draco Malfoy,_

 _In light of new information, the Wizengamot has made the decision to move the date of your trail forward to the 1st March. You will be informed of the details pertaining to your conduct and arrival at a later date._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Ottaline Warbeck,_

 _Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot,_

 _Department of Magical Law Enforcement,_

 _Ministry of Magic."_

Draco closed his eyes. He heard the scroll become lifeless and collapse on the floor but he couldn't bring himself to watch. _1st March._ He hadn't eaten but he still felt bile crawl up his throat and he doubled over as if he might retch. His entire body shook. His head throbbed. Heart raced. Draco blinked. He caught sight of his clean forearm and pondered bitterly on how fickle he must be to think that the past was behind him. Not even magic could bury the past. It would always be there, lingering, clinging to his soul, under the surface.

"Draco?"

He'd forgotten she was there. _No_. That was a lie. He hadn't forgotten her at all. He was always painfully aware of her, always wanted her near but now- now, all Draco wanted was for Hermione Granger to hate him again, to be far away, because it was just too much if she witnessed his dissolution. He took a deep breath and forced himself to look at her.

Hermione was watching him, her eyes wide, her lips parted. Her hair was ruffled from where he'd run his fingers through it. She looked undone and he couldn't tell if it was because he'd kissed her or worse. The Merpeople must have been celebrating the New Year too for the lake exploded in a multitude of colours behind her. The dark murkiness of the water danced like the night's sky and strange firework-like flares shot into the shadows, igniting like blossoming flowers along her skin.

"Hermione," he murmured.

She was crying again, shoulders trembling, but the sob escaped her lips anyway. Draco hated the sound of it. She walked towards him, pulling her to him, wrapping her arms around him and holding him tight. One of her hands stroked his hair as though he were a child again. Hermione didn't say anything to him. She just held him, and Draco hated himself for clinging onto her and wanting to sob into the nook of her shoulder.

He found he couldn't cry though. He was numb. He could still taste Hermione on his tongue, but now everything, her cherry lip gloss, the warmth of her in his arms, and all the fireworks of the New Year, was turning to ash in his mouth.

 _I have three months._

 _I have three months left to live._


	22. Freedom

**Chapter Twenty Two- Freedom**

 **January**

They had three months to plan.

Hermione paced outside McGonagall's office. She tasted copper and knew she'd bitten her lip so hard she'd drawn blood. It wasn't that three months was too short a timescale; on the contrary, Hermione had owled Harry first thing after breakfast on New Year's Day to tell him about the update. He'd replied within the hour, telling her that he and Ron had been reading through the transcripts of all the Death Eater cases and that three months was still plenty of time and that she shouldn't worry. Hermione had scoffed at that part. They knew her too well, however, for she received another owl only five minutes after the first, carrying a letter from Ron. She could almost hear the exasperation in his voice, calling her a worrywart and telling her to go to library, like she always did when in doubt. It had made her smile, at least, but the smile was too quickly replaced by the gnawing anxiety in her gut.

It was only a week into the New Year, but Hermione had thought about very little else other than Draco's trial. She flushed, feet faltering. Okay. That was a lie. She had thought about a lot more: the colours of the lake; the pale expanse of her arm, without her scar; the softness of his lips; the hardness of his body; the-

-Staircase rotated and Draco stepped out onto the corridor. "All done," he said. "McGonagall said we have to be back by 4. I don't need to go see her, it'll notify her as soon as I'm back on the grounds."

He raised an eyebrow when all she did was stare at him. Hermione cleared her throat, quickly diverting her gaze. "Okay."

They stayed there for a moment.

"Shall we?" asked Draco. She nodded. With a sarcastic flourish, he beckoned for her to lead the way.

Hermione mentally scolded herself. She could feel her blush creep lower, warming her neck and chest. They hadn't spoken very much since that night, over a week ago. If she hadn't known better, she'd think he was avoiding her. Or her, him. It was only in the lessons they shared that she managed to elicit any sort of interaction from him and even then, it was forced or noncommittal. She'd had to arrange this trip to Hogsmeade through their parchment; she'd gotten no reply but made plans anyway, waiting hopefully at the foot of the staircase, left to pray that he would turn up. In the end, he did.

It was only when they were out of the castle and making their way down the wind-swept grounds that Draco spoke to her.

"You haven't told Boy Wonder and his pet Weasel about-?"

Hermione looked at him. They had forgone the Cloak, having no need of it now McGonagall had given them express permission, and whilst it felt more natural to see him beside her, she wished she couldn't. His hands were shoved in his pockets, face screwed up as the wind ripped his scarf from his chin, cheeks frost-bitten and pink, lips chapped and turning blue. Hermione stared at them. _About what?_ She thought. _Our kiss?_ She wondered if he'd say it aloud if she asked him.

But instead, she shook her head and said, "No."

Draco nodded. Hermione buried her face deeper into her own kitted scarf, pretending his sigh of relief was the wind and the twinge in her chest was the cold.

They didn't speak again, walking to Hogsmeade in relative silence. The snow had looked like it was starting to melt, but the night before, it had reinvigorated its efforts, coating the town in a fresh veil. It was still early, with most students not yet out of bed, the sun white on the mountain tops. Hermione walked ahead, holding the door to the Three Broomsticks open for him and Draco gave her wide berth as he passed, muttering a thanks. She pressed her lips into a line and followed him to the back staircase and up into the first room. They didn't bother knocking.

Harry jumped up when he saw her, rushing over to give her a cuddle that seemed to last forever. Hermione felt her eyes grow wet and her throat close up and she clutched him tighter, breathing him in. He was in no hurry to let her go, whether it was because he'd missed her or because he heard the hitch in her breath as she tried to stop herself from crying; either way, she was grateful for it.

He only pulled away when she patted his shoulder clumsily, rubbing her hand in circles over his back. Harry smiled at her. "Happy New Year."

Hermione swallowed thickly. It was a moment before she could get the words out. "Happy New Year, Harry."

Her smile was strained and she couldn't look at Draco behind her.

"Mum missed you," said Ron, coming over to pull her into a big bear hug. Hermione melted into him. He was taller than Harry, longer and thicker arms, warmer and more solid. He smelled like woodsmoke and something sweet. She sighed into his chest. "She kept telling me off for not Apparating to Hogwarts and dragging you back home."

Hermione grinned despite herself. Her voice was muffled. "You can't Apparate in or out of Hogwarts. It's in-"

"Hogwarts: A History," Ron finished for her, flopping his cheek on the top of her head and groaning. "I know. You've only told me a million times."

She pinched his side and he leapt away, offence and mirth laughing in his bright eyes. "Touchy!"

Hermione laughed. She unravelled her scarf, taking off her winter garb because a warmth had settled within her. She realised a moment later how quiet it had gotten.

"Draco." Harry cleared his throat. Scratched the back of his neck. He held out his hand, then seemed to think better of it, and clapped the Slytherin on the shoulder instead. He offered him a smile. "Happy New Year."

Draco's lips were tight but Hermione knew it was genuine when he smiled back. "Happy New Year, Potter."

"Uh, you can call me Harry," he said, laughing slightly.

Draco smirked and shook his head. "You'll always be Potter to me."

"Whatever, Malfoy. Come give us a hand if you're done loitering in the doorway."

Draco raised an eyebrow but didn't comment, simply removing his scarf and coat and laying them both over the back of a chair. Hermione noticed then that the room was vastly different from how she remembered it. The boys had been busy; they'd transfigured the bed into a large desk big enough for four people in the centre of the room and each pillow into a cushioned chair. The canvas painting on the far wall had been cleared and instead, there was a cork board, with a few notes and scraps of paper already stuck to it.

"I do hope you plan on putting everything back when you're done," said Hermione, though she was well aware the lightness of her voice gave away how impressed she was with their spellwork.

Ron looked affronted. "What do you take us for, Mione? Do we strike you as people who don't clean up their messes?"

She raised her eyebrows at him and demanded, "Do you not remember any of our time at Hogwarts? The troll? The giant Chess Board? The car with a mind of its own still running about in the Forbidden Forest? The-?"

"Alright!" he cut her off, grinning, hands up in surrender. "We get your point."

"I mean, the car's not really running though, is it," said Harry. "More just spluttering about, running over the odd giant spider-"

She lobbed a pen at his head and he managed to duck just in time for it to sail past his hair. Harry shot her an incredulous look. "I have enough scars on my forehead, don't you think, Hermione? And to answer your question," he continued, sitting down at the desk and leaning back to take them all in. "We've booked out this room for the next three months. Figured we'd be here a lot."

A silence fell over the room that made Hermione cringe.

"Ah," said Ron. The tips of his ears flushed pink. He turned to Draco, who looked like he wanted the desk to somehow become a giant four poster bed again and crush him in the process. "Yeah. Heard about your trial, mate."

Hermione thought it sounded strange to hear Ron call him that. Draco froze. By the time she'd next blinked, he'd shrugged and said, "At least it's not on my birthday anymore."

"It was on your birthday?" exclaimed Ron, leaning back against the wall. He let out a long whistle. "The Wizengamot is ruthless."

"Hopefully not for us," said Hermione hastily, shooting him a glare. The heat of it caused Ron to scramble upright.

"Yeah, no. I mean, they _can_ be ruthless. To those who deserve it. But not you. Not you, because you don't deserve it, so it's fine!" Ron relaxed again, looking somewhat pleased with himself. "No matter how much of a wanker you were in school."

"Ronald!"

Hermione glanced at Draco, cheeks burning, but found his lips twitching slightly. "Thanks, Weasley. I assure you the nostalgia is well reciprocated"

"You're welcome," said Ron gruffly, shrugging his broad shoulders. "And good. Glad to see the world's not gone barking mad."

Hermione glanced despairingly between the two. _"Boys!"_

"We should probably start soon," said Harry, lips turned up in a grin. "We have a lot to get through."

Harry spread the files out over the desk, and Hermione saw name after name of kids that had been in her Potions class, or that she'd seen on trophies and plaques during detention, or as names on the Marauders' Map. She glanced at Draco, realising these somewhat familiar names to her were likely his friends, family friends, Housemates. He didn't seem to outwardly react, but she knew better than to think he'd let any sign of weakness show; she caught the tell-tale twitch of his jaw and trembling of his fingers, clasped together beneath his sleeves. Hermione turned her attention back to the files in front of her. She followed the Death Eater trials when she could, buying the Daily Prophet weekly and keeping an eye on everything and anything the paper offered, but detail was sparing. The only correlation she had found was that the outcome never looked promising.

"They've already dealt with the senior members of Voldemort's ranks-" Harry began.

Hermione sucked in a breath. It wasn't the name. Fear of the name only increased fear of the thing itself. During the war, they'd gotten so used to not slipping up and saying it that hearing it now startled her. She'd had no reason to say it for the last however many months. She remembered when they had slipped up. Hermione played with her sleeve and waited for her shoulders to relax.

She felt Draco move beside her and then his hand came on hers, squeezing once before dropping away.

"-obviously, the Wizengamot aren't being gentle. Life in Azkaban. Never shorter. According to the files, the Dementors' Kiss was only just ruled out. They voted on it." Harry went pale. "It was rejected by one vote in the end."

"So life was lenient?" Hermione asked. She failed to keep the disgust out of her voice.

Nobody answered.

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose and continued, "The Chief Warlock had the deciding vote. Ottaline Warbeck."

Ron moved forward then, tapping a photograph on the cork board of an older woman. Her wiry grey hair sparked around her head, eyes blue and bright, face creased with lines. It was a Muggle photograph, Hermione noticed.

"Half-Blood," said Ron. "From a family of Hufflepuffs. Started as an intern to Cornelius Fudge in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, then worked her way up to being a member of the Muggle-Worthy Excuses Committee. Wrote a few essays about Muggle integration and cohabitation. Became Chief Warlock simply because no one had ever heard of her before and it was rare for a Ministry worker not to be caught up in some secret, illegal dealing. Dad said she's nice, but from the sounds of things, she shares his love for Muggles so I think he's got a soft spot for her."

Harry was nodding along. Hermione glanced between them. "What does this mean for us?"

She felt Draco's eyes on her.

"So far, Warbeck has been the only thing in the way of the calls for more radical sentences," said Harry. "The Ministry is split at the moment between those who want peace and those who want some twisted version of justice. It means quite a lot for us."

Hermione nodded, sitting in the chair opposite him. Harry looked away from her, briefly looking at his hands, where they tapped against the table, and then focusing on Draco.

He said after a moment, "I need you to go over what you remember of that night. To make sure our memories match, and maybe even make it so my account can bolster whatever came before the Astronomy Tower."

"And this will work?" Draco asked.

"They won't use your memory because memories can be tampered with," said Harry, "but I'm an unbiased witness. It should work."

"Hermione and I will go get us all some breakfast," said Ron, skirting around the back of her chair and clasping her shoulder.

Hermione frowned, twisting her neck to look at him then shooting to look at Harry. "What?"

Harry offered her a consolatory smile. "I'm not kicking you out," he said. "I just thought it might be easier if it was just the two of us. You- you don't want to have been there… It's best we relive it ourselves."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. Draco wasn't looking at her. She bit her lip. Nodded. "Okay."

They left the room, descending onto the pub floor and weaved through the tables. The Three Broomsticks was slowly filling up, sending out warm breakfasts and hot chocolates and the odd beer for patrons who either didn't know or didn't care that it was only half 9 in the morning. Ron motioned to the barkeep once they reached the bar.

"How was your Christmas?" Hermione asked him. He'd always been tall, but now, she had to crane her neck back to look up into his face.

Ron laughed a little. "Yeah. Good. Just as hectic as usual." His smile flickered and a cloud passed across the blue of his eyes. Hermione swallowed thickly and reached out to take his hand. Ron blinked. "Obviously, still wasn't easy. Not without- well, House seemed quiet is all."

"Yeah. I can imagine."

"Missed you though!" Ron tugged on her hand and pulled her into another cuddle. "Had no one nattering on at me about House Elves and their lack of holiday leave-"

Hermione whacked his chest, but her laugh gave her away. "Oh, shut up!"

Ron let go of her, grinning. The barkeep came over at that point, and they gave their order for four Full English's, three coffees and a tea. Ron told her to put in on his tab.

"How's Malfoy been anyway?" he asked as they waited.

Hermione cast her eyes out over the empty pub. It was already much busier now, scattered with students and villagers alike, many windswept and pink-faced and chattering. "Quiet," she said.

"Probably an understatement," replied Ron.

"It's strange that they've brought the trial forward," said Hermione. She leaned into the bar, arms folded across her chest. "I think it's shaken him."

Ron coughed, scratching his head. "Yeah."

She straightened. "Ronald Weasley..." He tried not to look at her, desperately staring at the barmaid so as to catch her attention and have reason not to answer. Hermione narrowed her eyes. "What have you done?"

Ron winced. The struggle between his brain and his mouth finally gave way. "Harry managed to get a meeting with the new Chief Warlock," he began haltingly. Hermione thought she'd stopped breathing. It was suddenly very busy. Very hot. She shook her head. "He told her he was going to testify in Draco Malfoy's case..."

"That's why she moved it forward?" murmured Hermione. "Because of Harry? _Harry_ is the new evidence?"

Ron quickly held his hands up in surrender. "I didn't know! Harry told me he was going to see the Chief Warlock but I swear I didn't know that was why."

"He's given us a ticking time bomb," she said, the worry and anxiety and fury whirling in her stomach, making her feel sick. "Oh God. We have three months-"

Hermione made to turn around and storm back up to the room when Ron grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

"Ronald Weasley, let go of me!"

"Harry overheard some Members of the Wizengamot talking about Malfoy," said Ron, quick and low in her ear. She heard him swallow. "They're going to make an example out of him, Hermione. I know it feels like we've got no time, but now they've got less. Trust me. Trust _Harry_. He knows what he's doing."

Hermione stared at him. "Why would they-?"

He scoffed. "Do you seriously have to ask? It's _Malfoy._ His family was Voldemort's right hand man."

"But he's a _child,_ " said Hermione frantically, clutching at his sleeve. "He's just a child-"

"So what, Hermione?" Ron demanded. "What does it matter to them? We were only kids too. We were all just kids. None of us were meant to be in a war but that doesn't matter to them! We never mattered to them. What makes you think they'll give a damn now?"

Hermione stared at him for only a second longer before she turned her face away so he couldn't see her cry. Everything felt to fall to pieces inside of her. She could see Colin Creevey's tiny, lifeless body; Lavender's mangled corpse; Fred. Hermione had always wanted children, ever since her mother had bought her a pretty doll from the charity shop, but sometimes, she could still hear Molly Weasley's scream as she cradled her dead baby to her chest.

She heard him sigh.

"Hermione, I'm sorry-"

Their breakfast came then, and she took the opportunity to take one of the trays and say, "Come on, before it gets cold."

Ron didn't comment that it had just come out of the kitchen, taking the other tray and following her back upstairs.

"We bring food," he announced after they'd knocked. They set the trays down on the table after Harry moved the files to make some room. Hermione silently sat in her chair, staring at her plate. She felt something touch her hand, and jumped, before realising Draco had breached the distance between them to brush his thumb across her knuckles. He was deathly pale, dark smudges under his pink-rimmed eyes. She twisted her hand to thread her fingers through his.

They ate their breakfast, flicking through the files, making idle chat; Hermione nearly choked on her toast when Harry deigned to tell Draco about the troll incident in their first year. Draco had laughed so hard she feared his coffee might explode out his nose. It was her turn to laugh when she reminded them all of the time Draco had been too chicken to meet them for their duel (-"a stupid idea, honestly! What were you trying to do- get yourselves expelled?!"), and the boys had gotten into an argument over the hypothetical result of a fight that had never happened.

When their laughter had subsided and their plates had been emptied, they each took a pile of files, either on the cases or the members of the Wizengamot, highlighting and scribbling anything that jumped out at them. They stayed like that for hours, slowly filling up the corkboard to the point that Ron had to put an extending charm on it. It was the alarm Hermione had set on her wand that ripped them out of their productivity, sending bubbles over the table and up, into the air.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, startling Harry, across from her.

"What's that?" asked Ron.

Hermione glanced at Draco. "We need to be back before 4."

"McGonagall's orders," added Draco wryly, getting to his feet. He rubbed his eyes. Stretched. The sleeve of his shirt fell back, and Harry noticed.

They said their goodbyes. Hermione hugged both of her boys, holding them tightly, committing their warmth and homeliness to memory. Draco shook their hands. As they made to leave, Harry grabbed her elbow, holding her back, murmuring in her ear, "Where's his Mark?"

"What?"

He looked at her impatiently. "You know what. His Mark."

"He has some gel. To cover it."

Harry stared at her, and she couldn't tell if the look in his eyes was worrying or careful. She used to be able to read her best friend like a book but ever since their time on the run, even as early as their Fifth Year, Hermione found that sometimes, despite the love in his eyes and the familiarity of his lopsided grin, Harry could still be a stranger to her. She wished he was still as easy to decipher, but when she frowned at him in question, he just shook his head and let her go.

Hermione had almost forgotten that the world outside was cold and ravaging and ruthless, momentarily blown away by the wind that leapt up when they stepped outside. She tugged her scarf tighter around her neck, trapping her curls in it so they couldn't whip her face and become even more uncontrollable than they already were. Draco was quiet beside her.

"It's funny," she said, breaking the silence as they trudged up to the school. "Just when you think the world is unrecognisable, you boys start arguing and I feel like nothing has changed."

Draco scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous, Granger. Everything has changed."

Hermione frowned and muttered, "That's a slight exaggeration-"

"Harry saw everything."

She almost stopped walking, but forced her feet to stumble on because Draco never even faltered. Hermione didn't question his use of Harry's first name, merely licked her cracked lips and said, "What?"

"He saw everything that night," said Draco. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, eyes tracing the cobbles. The disgust was like poison on his lips and he was trying to spit it out. "On the Astronomy Tower."

Hermione swallowed. "Then that's good, isn't it? It means we can use him as a witness."

Draco didn't reply. She dared to look at him. His jaw was set, his face tight.

"Draco?"

They were nearly at Hogwarts. He didn't look at her, his eyes catching on some cloud in the sky, or maybe some faint star he was desperately trying to wish on. Hermione glanced up too, and she caught sight of the crescent moon, still hanging above them.

"Do you want to go for a fly?"

She nearly tripped, head snapping to look at him. "Sorry?"

A faint smile cracked his lips. "I didn't swear at you, Granger."

Hermione blinked. "I-" His shoulders had relaxed at the thought of flying, the smile playing loosely at his lips as the wind played with his hair. "Sure. Just don't drop me."

A quick burst of laughter escaped from him. Draco finally looked at her and smirked. "I wouldn't dream of it, Granger."

When they got to the castle, he told her to wait whilst he collected his broom, and Hermione did indeed wait… until he had rounded the corner, before she ran her hands through her hand and started to panic. Why on _earth_ had she agreed to go _flying_ with _Draco sodding Malfoy_ of all people!? She'd never even gotten on a broomstick with Ron! As if he knew she was talking herself out of it and into a frenzy, Draco appeared only a few minutes after he'd disappeared, offering her his hand (she took it without thinking) and pulling her to the Quidditch Pitch. Hermione trembled and his hand was warm in hers when he squeezed her fingers.

Draco only stopped when he was in the middle of the pitch. He mounted the broom, ran a hand through his hair, stopped and grinned at her. "Hop on, Granger."

Hermione scrambled, threw her bag over her head to secure it, tightened her scarf, winced, before she climbed on in front of him. Immediately, Draco wrapped an arm around her waist, clutching the handle with the other hand. He leaned forward, pressing her into the broom. She only had time to suck in a breath before they were off-

She screamed. Hermione could hear Draco's chuckle, deep and throaty, in her ear, before it was ripped away into the sky. "I've got you, Granger," he murmured, lips brushing her skin. She gripped his hand tightly.

"Oh God," whispered Hermione, eyes screwed shut. "Oh God, oh God, oh God."

"Granger. For once in your life, stop thinking and just _feel-"_

She wrenched her eyes open. Another scream nearly left her throat but she swallowed it just in time. Hermione slowly relaxed, leaning back against Draco's chest. They were up in the clouds. The sky wasn't blue, but grey and blinding white, shot through with the swell of a storm and the encroaching evening. She could see the turrets of the castle like they were pebbles on the ground, spotted with white, growing smaller and smaller the higher they ventured. The frozen lake was a puddle, then a spec. Hermione felt the rush of the wind envelop her, thread through her hair. It made her eyes water. It was terrifying, and reminded her of why she refused to ride a broom in the first place, but it was also exhilarating, thrilling, freedom embodied.

They started their descent all too soon. It was past 4 and there was only so much cloud they could cover within Hogwarts' grounds whilst the winter sun strained in the sky. Still, Hermione was grateful when they landed, and Draco's feet touched the ground, bringing them to a halt. She let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding, falling back against him. Draco chuckled.

"As bad as you thought?" he asked. His hand, around her waist, had slipped past her coat at some point to tighten his grip, and was drawing lazy circles through her shirt. Hermione felt like she would melt in the warmth of him.

She nodded, eyes closed. "Worse."

He scoffed, and Hermione felt cold all of a sudden. She shuffled away, clambering off. Her legs were shaky. The ground felt unfamiliar and hard under her feet.

Draco stopped smiling. He swung his leg over, throwing his broom over his shoulder. Tossed her a short, "Well, I'll be seeing you. Thanks for the flight, Granger," before turning on his heel.

Hermione stared at his back. She floundered. Her heart was still racing, lodged in her mouth. Her skin was prickled with the cold. Her lips blue and gaping. She nearly started after him but dug her heels into the pitch. She could not restrain the question quite so easily.

"Do you regret it?"

The words were wrenched from her lips as though the wind had plucked them out and carried them far away. Hermione saw him freeze, the ripple of tension in his shoulders, the stillness of his face. He looked back at her carefully.

"Do I regret what?" asked Draco.

She lowered her eyes. "You know what."

The wind dropped, cold creeping along her arms the longer they stood there. The adrenaline in her heart was dulling.

"No," he said, not once looking away from her. "Do you?"

Hermione felt her arms erupt in Goosebumps and she rubbed at them through her coat, hugging herself. She shook her head and her curls tickled her cheeks. "No."

She saw the curve of his throat clench as he swallowed. Draco nodded once. His smile was a bit more genuine now, a bit softer, like it had been smudged by the clouds. "See you tomorrow, Granger."

Hermione watched him leave, the freedom she had felt in the sky drying, cracking, falling to pieces. She wondered if that's how Draco felt, every time he left the castle and returned, after he'd kissed her and tasted the fireworks of liberation, before his life had been put on a timer.

They had three months.

She had three months to save Draco Malfoy.

 **AN: Bit of plot, bit of fluff. Sorry it wasn't the most interesting chapter- plot is a pain. The trial is soon…**


	23. A Good Night's Sleep

**Chapter Twenty Three- A Good Night's Sleep**

 **February**

Hermione woke up feeling an odd sense of calm wash over her. She stretched, arms thrown out, then turned to see that Draco's last message was still drying on the parchment from the night before, bidding her goodnight. A smile tugged at her lips. The sunlight was dainty and fresh, creeping through the slit in the curtains, spilling across the floor of her room and slicing her bed in two. It couldn't have been terribly early if it was light outside already, and Hermione checked her watch on the bedside table. She pulled a face. She was going to miss breakfast.

Languidly, as though she had all the time left in the world, she slipped from bed, yawning and stretching again. A cup of stone cold jasmine tea sat on her desk and Hermione cast a warming charm on it, seeing no reason for it to go to waste, as she collected her clothes for the day and got dressed. For the past month and a half, they'd been meeting Harry and Ron at The Three Broomsticks every weekend, sometimes both Saturday and Sunday if they could get away with it. Hermione was sure there were things the two boys were keeping to themselves, some trump card to play if the case called for it, some Plan B. She hoped so, even if she prayed to every God listening that they'd never have to use it. Every time she left the room they'd claimed as their study, her heart felt a little bit more hopeful. And there were still a few weeks left. There was some hope, after all.

Hermione ran a brush through her hair, grimacing when it merely grew frizzier. She shoved it up instead, before grabbing her beaded bag and leaving for breakfast. They weren't going to Hogsmeade today, so she wasn't surprised to see Draco was missing. He'd taken to going flying recently, tasting the last winds of freedom on his tongue just in case. Though she hadn't gotten on a broom with him again, sometimes she'd sit in the stands with a book and pretend to read whilst she watched him over the top of her page. He always knew she watched him. The smug bastard had even once caught her out by asking how many pages she'd managed to get through, when it was painfully obvious she hadn't even finished the introduction. He'd laughed- a lot, and Hermione had thwacked him with the book until he'd stopped laughing and started whining at her. She rolled her eyes at the memory and sat down at the Gryffindor table, helping herself to some toast.

"Miss Granger!"

Hermione paused, mid-bite. She glanced up. McGonagall was standing over her, hands folded together, black sleeves billowing. She always wore black robes, nowadays, Hermione never failed to note: black for mourning.

"Miss Granger, what in heavens are you doing here?"

Hermione frowned, swallowing the food she had in her mouth as quickly as she could, covering her face to preserve at least a shred of her dignity. "Pardon?"

McGonagall's eyes widened. "Miss Granger, you are aware of what day it is today, are you not?"

Hermione felt her heart drop through her chest. She couldn't quite place what the feeling was, only that it was profound and heavy and agonising. She shook her head numbly.

"Hermione," the Headmistress softened her voice, but the whiteness of her knuckles gave away how tightly she was clasping her hands together. "I received an owl from the Ministry only two days ago, concerning Mister Malfoy." Hermione closed her eyes. The toast dropped from her hand. All the chatter of the Great Hall fell to a murmur. "His trial has been unexpectedly moved forward."

Despite it all, despite the bile that was rising in her throat and the tears that leaked from her eyes, Hermione still managed to whisper, "When?"

"Today, Miss Granger."

She felt herself slipping from the bench but she never reached the ground. McGonagall's hands were on her arms, coaxing her to her feet, avoiding a scene, leading her from the Great Hall, where life continued on as if nothing had happened. They passed Ginny as they left, and she called Hermione's name, but it fell on deaf ears. They walked through the castle in silence, waiting in silence as the Headmistress said the password, and the entrance to her office appeared. Hermione didn't remember walking up the spiral staircase or sitting wordlessly in the chair opposite Professor McGonagall. She only remembered being offered a lemondrop, and the acidic burst of lemon on her tongue.

"Mister Malfoy did not tell you?" asked McGonagall.

Hermione shook her head, sucking on the sweet.

"Nor Potter or Weasley?"

Her head shot up. "Harry and Ron knew?"

"Potter is a witness in the trial, and Weasley was one of the Aurors sent to collect Mister Malfoy this morning. I, myself, was just on my way when I spotted you." McGonagall paused. "You can come with me, Miss Granger. I can give you leave for today."

Hermione swallowed and her throat scraped like sandpaper. The last of the sweet was still fizzing on her tongue. She said quietly, "He didn't tell me. I was talking to him just last night about it, and he didn't tell me... Draco clearly doesn't want me there-"

"Look at me, Miss Granger." McGonagall leaned forward, eyes piercing and stern behind her glasses, lips shrewd, and Hermione had no choice but to look at her. The softness of her voice didn't quite match the steel of her gaze. "I am quite certain that there is no one Mister Malfoy wants to be there more."

Hermione stared at her. Her heart splintered at the thought of Draco facing the world all alone. She inhaled deeply. Even if the world was burning, she knew, even in the agony of the flames, she _knew_ that she would make sure she was beside him. They had come through too much to lose one another now. They had endured too many sleepless nights, had had too many blood-boiling arguments, had shared too much of themselves every time they looked at one another.

Sitting up straighter in the chair, Hermione wiped at her eyes and said, "When does the trial start?"

There was an imperceptible twitch of McGonagall's lips. "In exactly an hour. So we'd best be on our way, Miss Granger."

The two witches stood and moved over to the grand, marble fireplace. McGonagall collected a bowl of Floo Powder from the mantle. Just as she took a handful, Hermione caught sight of Dumbledore over the Headmistress' shoulder; he sat as serenely as he usually did, encased in his portrait, hands folded in his lap, and whilst they were wrinkled, neither one was poisoned and black. They were just the hands of an old man. His smile was gentle and his eyes twinkled. He nodded at her. Hermione felt herself smile back.

She stepped into the fireplace, grateful that it was large enough that she didn't have to duck down, and took a deep breath.

"Ministry of Magic!"

Flinging the powder down, the Headmistress' office disappeared abruptly and the whirl of magic enveloped her. Flooing always made her feel disoriented. It wasn't like flying in a plane, when your body had time to adjust, and you took your time, and everything happened slowly; it was fast and abrupt and violent. A bit like falling in love.

In no time whatsoever, Hermione was stepping out of the fireplace and into the Ministry atrium. Her eyes immediately flew to the peacock blue ceiling, reading over the golden symbols that spelled the timetable for the day. She spotted the Wizengamot stamp in no time and when McGonagall appeared beside her, straightening her hat, Hermione said, "Level 10."

They set off, weaving and twisting through the throng of Ministry workers and everyday witches and wizards come to complain or resolve an issue that had plagued them since the war. The government had been in chaos ever since the Light had managed to reclaim it back from Voldemort's grasp; each Department inundated daily with concerns and problems and damage to be fixed. There wasn't a single witch or wizard in Britain that hadn't been affected in some way, however small. Still, Hermione pushed past them all.

She was jittery, somewhere between trembling and buzzing, her veins alight with anxiety. She tapped her foot against the floor of the elevator as they were taken upstairs, chewing on her lip, before shifting and tapping her fingers against her leg. McGonagall touched her shoulder firmly, and Hermione tried to calm herself. It was to no avail. She felt like she was being put on trial herself and all she could think about was seeing Draco before he went in. At this precise moment in time, she wasn't sure whether she wanted to hug him or throttle him for not telling her. She just prayed she wasn't too late-

The elevator doors shuttered open and Hermione burst out onto the corridor.

She saw him immediately, like they were plunged in darkness and he was the only light burning for miles.

Her legs carried her forward before she could stop and think, and then she was running, pelting along the corridor, ignorant of the looks thrown her way.

She didn't even have to call his name. He saw her coming.

Hermione barely glanced at Ron as he stepped back to let her through, stopping the other Auror from getting in her way. There was a stitch burning up her side and now that she was face to face with him, she had no idea what to say. She wasted too long trying to catch her breath and even then, the first thing she could blurt out was, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Her voice gave away her hurt. Hermione had tried to keep it neutral and she winced at the way it cracked.

Draco stared at her like she was a ghost, or a memory, back from the dead, or dredged up from the past, to haunt him. He swallowed. Shook his head slightly. "I didn't want this to be the last thing you remember about me."

Hermione felt her resolve break, crumble to pieces. She pressed her foot harder against the ground so she wouldn't tap it. "Did you not think that, after everything, I might want to be here?"

A muscle twitched in his jaw and he looked away from her. He was wearing a black Muggle suit, Hermione realised, and it nearly threw her off. She wet her lips and asked in a small voice, "Did you not want me here?"

Draco still refused to look at her. His pale blue eyes were streaked with something darker and harsher, the crinkles by them strained and creased. He had dark under-circles. There was no colour in his cheeks but his lips were the colour of peonies in spring. The pain in his voice was tangible when he murmured, "Of course I want you here, Hermione."

Hermione felt herself start crying. She wiped at her cheeks hastily so he wouldn't see but his eyes flicked to her anyway and she saw her own pain in them, wreaked like havoc, twined within his. She couldn't hold it back.

"It's _you_ ," she said, all the strength and hope she had built up since wandering across him that night shattering in an instant. "You're the only thing that helps me sleep. It's not the jasmine, Draco. It's you. It's always been you, and I'll be damned if you go into that trial with nobody standing beside you. I won't allow it."

Draco stared at her. He clung to her, to every emotion she was laying bare for him. Hermione rubbed her eyes in frustration. A small smile cracked one side of his face. It was barely there, almost missable- but she caught it.

"My, Ganger," he said. "I didn't realise you'd go so far for a good night's sleep."

It was the best he could come up with, and the dry nonchalance he had hoped to convey was choked and loaded instead, but Hermione understood anyway and she laughed weakly.

He sat on the bench, and she sat beside him. Hermione stretched her fingers across the empty space between them, and his fingers twitched. There was still a breath of air separating them, but she felt his pulse on her fingertips, the thrum of his life, the nerves and anxiety that consumed him. She didn't know what to say, and Draco seemed content in their silence, the tips of his fingers playing with her hand, running over her knuckles, dipping to trace the lines of her palm. It was fleeting-

"Mister Draco Malfoy."

And then he was ripped away from her.

Hermione's head shot in the direction of the voice. A member of the Wizengamot, adorned in the crimson robes and square hat, stood in the doorway further down the hall. Ron cleared his throat. "It's time."

Hermione quickly looked at Draco. She wanted to beg them for a few more merciful seconds, she wanted to cling onto him and protect him from an unforgiving past and an unforgiving future. She wanted to save him from falling but he was slipping through her fingertips.

Before he fell completely, Hermione flung herself at him, closing her eyes, burrowing into his neck. Draco lifted his arms, hesitantly at first, then surrendered himself to her, tangling a hand in her curls, cupping the back of her head, his other hand pressing against her back.

"When we get back to Hogwarts, we'll go flying," she whispered, clutching him tighter, holding him to her, feeling his heart thrum against her chest or maybe it was her own that was beating so ferociously. Hermione heard his breath catch by her ear. Draco pressed his face into her hair. "We'll go flying. I'll even let you do a loop. Only one, I think I'd be sick if you did anymore and that just wouldn't be pretty for any of us…" She broke off. "You're not your father's son, Draco. You're _Draco_. You're- you're my friend, and I care about you, and I need you to come back to me. I love you, Draco. Come back to me. Please."

She didn't know if she imagined his arms tightening around her, hand splayed across her back, before clenching in her jumper. Hermione held him for as long as she could, before Ron touched her shoulder and murmured her name.

Stepping back, she took a deep breath. Draco stared at her, eyes tracing every slope and freckle of her face as though he was committing it to memory. "Goodbye, Granger."

Hermione shook her head. Her curls stuck to her wet cheeks. "This isn't goodbye. I'll see you later, Draco."

The Aurors led him down the hall to where the member of the Wizengamot was waiting. The white walls were stark against the dark grey Auror garb, the white of his hair blinding against the blackness of his suit. He looked back at her. One final time. Hermione held her breath.

She realised numbly and too late, that he was looking back because he truly feared he would never get to lay eyes on her again. She knew because the way he looked at her was like a man going blind, squinting up at the sun. Wistful and raw and yearning. In pain and in awe. Hermione didn't think he meant to bear his soul so nakedly to her.

All she could offer in return was a smile.

But it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough. The smile trembled. It strained her face and a tear slid down her cheek.

His agony was ripped up, wrenched through the winds of the past- _"I can't stand to look at you, Granger… because I need you. I fucking need you."_

"I need you, Draco," whispered Hermione. He disappeared and she cried freely. Sobbed. Wept for him. "Please come back to me. I need you."

 **AN: So this was a bit of a teaser really. You might be wondering why I decided to do it like this. I guess the biggest reason for the time jump skipping over their planning and the trial date being moved again was I wanted the trial itself to still be an element of surprise for you, as it's (for the moment) the biggest, or most obvious, driving force of the plot. But I also think that although Draco and Hermione have come so far, he's still not totally comfortable with being so close to her. In fact, the closer they become, the less willing he is to let her in, it seems. That's my characterisation of Draco post-war, anyhow, and I needed to really exploit that and blow it up before his trial changes everything. It's really quite difficult to write the balance of Hermione x Draco believably so I can't tell you enough how grateful I am for your comments! This chapter started as a filler and it felt a bit flat but working on it tonight, I found myself really trying not to cry. I'm probably just emotional and you might not agree with me haha! I think this is the chapter when everything is up in the air for them both, and they needed to say (implicitly and explicitly) everything they felt, just in case it is the last time they ever get the chance to say it.**


	24. Can You Forgive Me?

**Chapter Twenty Four- Can You Forgive Me?**

Hermione had never been to a Wizarding trial. Though she had read all of the reports Harry and Ron had managed to get their hands on, sitting there in the stands, she realised that none of it could have prepared her.

The room was more of an atrium itself, with high, arching marble grey ceilings, held up by towering columns. The seating curved from one side of the room, dark grey benches stretching up in levels, open to the public. Hermione noticed a shimmer, like a curtain of magic, and realised there was a Shielding charm separating the stands from the floor. Opposite were the rows of the Wizengamot. There must have been about fifty of them in total, split into two halves, all in the same crimson robes and square hats, faces sharp and distant, raised from the floor. There was a box off to the side. A single chair sat in the centre of the room.

Draco shifted on it.

The two Aurors, one of them Ron, pointed their wands at him. Hermione frowned, sitting up straighter and craning her neck so she could see more clearly. The strand of magic was gold and translucent, encircling Draco's wrists, tying him to the chair. Another two glowing ropes slid round his ankles, turning the existing band green, then gold.

They left him then, alone, to face his future, his past of unatoned sins. Hermione wanted to be there next to him, just so she could remind him that he would never be alone, not really, that she was rooting for him, that it would all be okay, no matter the outcome.

A few minutes later, Ron sidled onto the bench beside her. Hermione whirled on him.

"You tied him up?" she hissed.

Ron's eyes widened, and then he stared at her, and Hermione didn't like the pity in his eyes, so she looked away quickly. He took her hand, his fingers rough, the sleeve of his Auror robe coarse and thick. She squeezed his hand tightly. He returned the gesture. "He's going to be fine," he murmured.

Hermione chewed on her lip.

"It's busy," continued Ron, turning round to stare at the stands. He frowned. "Looks like half the Ministry have turned up."

She didn't dare look, keeping her eyes firmly on the blond halo of hair in the centre of the floor. "Of course they have. He's a Malfoy. They're here to see him fall."

"Shacklebolt's here too."

Hermione glanced behind her, and realised that the Minister for Magic was sitting in the very back corner of the room, next to Professor McGonagall. Kingsley caught her staring and dropped his head in a nod. She nodded back. Hermione couldn't help but scan the faces of the other people who had come to watch: some, it was clear, were Ministry workers, attending to keep updated with the Death Eater Trials; others, were staring at Draco with hardened faces, cruel eyes, like a villager wielding a pitchfork at a witch burning; there were very few who looked nervous, who shifted in their seats, eyes flicking around the room. Vaguely, Hermione wondered if Draco's mother was there, hidden in some shadow like the Minister.

A sudden hush fell across the atrium.

Ottaline Warbeck stood from her position amongst the Wizengamot. She cleared her throat and her voice, magnified, rang around the room.

"All present for the trail of Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, for his crimes against Wizarding Britain and the Ministry of Magic."

A magical quill, not unlike the one that blasted Rita Skeeter used to carry around constantly, floated in the seat beside her, scribing the event.

The Chief Warlock continued, reading from a script in front of her, eyes now fixed on Draco, "Mr Malfoy, you are on trial for the illegal use of the Imperius Curse against one Madam Rosmerta; the attempted murders of Mr Ronald Weasley, Miss Katie Bell and Albus Dumbledore; and acting as accomplice in aiding and abetting known fugitives and Death Eaters gain access to Hogwarts School. How do you plead for the use of an Unforgivable Curse?"

Draco's voice cracked. "Guilty."

There was silence, apart from the scratching of the quill. Ottaline Warbeck straightened her papers, her eyes briefly looking down, then refocusing on him. "How do you plead for the attempted murders of Mr Ronald Weasley, Miss Katie Bell and Albus Dumbledore?"

He inhaled deeply. "Guilty."

"How do you plead for the aiding and abetting Death Eaters in their attack on Hogwarts School?"

It was little more than a whisper. "Guilty."

"In which case," the Chief Warlock announced. "Under normal circumstances, a guilty plea would get the accused an automatic reduced sentence. However, this trial has been brought forward in light of new evidence and witnesses and the Wizengamot will take the plea into consideration, as well as the aforementioned evidence and witness testimonies. We will begin with the first witness, Madam Rosmerta."

Hermione's eyes widened and she shot to look at Ron. He caught her eye and shook his head almost imperceptibly, ducking close so he could whisper in her ear. "She found our notes when she was cleaning our room. Said she wanted to help. Was pretty adamant about it too."

The barmaid was led to the box by Aurors, and Hermione almost didn't recognise her. She wasn't wearing her usual face full of makeup. Her curls were flat, her hair bland, her cheeks pale. She looked to be shaking slightly as she shifted in the stand.

"Madam Rosmerta," said Ottaline Warbeck kindly. "You are here on your request to testify in the trial of Draco Malfoy. Do you have any recollection of the accused using the Imperius Curse against you?"

Madam Rosmerta fiddled with the rings on her fingers, leaning forward in the stand. "Yes," she said, then cleared her throat when her voice echoed. "Some."

"What do you remember?" the Chief Warlock asked. "Try not to leave any details out but only voice those you are certain of."

Rosmerta nodded anxiously. She'd never looked older, the lines of her face deep and worried. "I- I remember the day Mr Malfoy first… used the spell. We'd run out of Butterbeer and I'd gone into the back to restock the bar. It was busy, a Sunday. I heard someone crying… I called out but nobody answered, so I followed the sound and found Mr Malfoy.

"He was behind a barrel, crying- no, sobbing. I'd- I hadn't ever heard anything like it. My heart broke for the boy, it did. I started forward and I-I asked him if he was alright and if I could do anything. I think I startled him- he looked like a deer in headlights and then… the next thing I remember is seeing the- well, _His_ mark above the school and feeling like I'd just woken up."

Rosmerta stopped twisting her rings and finally looked at Draco. There were threads of grey in her hair and sorrow in her eyes. She looked just as quickly away, at Ottaline Warbeck instead.

She said quietly, "I don't want you to punish him. I know it's not what you expected and that an Unforgivable should be- well… but I can't rest easy at night knowing that a boy would rot in Azkaban if I didn't help him." Rosmerta sat up straighter, spoke more clearly and adamantly. "He never hurt me. He could've done a number of things to me! And he did nothing! He's hardly a Death Eater and he's not a criminal-"

"Thank you, Madam Rosmerta," an older man on the Wizengamot interrupted her and she fell silent, shrinking back into the stand.

Ottaline Warbeck stared evenly at the man. She then looked at Madam Rosmerta and offered her a small smile. "We are striving to take victims' opinions and testimonies into utmost consideration in our verdicts. Justice is for the victims-"

"Oh but I don't want justice!" Rosmerta said in her high voice. "I offered to speak because I wanted to help Mr Malfoy, not condemn him-!"

"Thank you for your time. Your testimony will be valued."

Rosmerta sat there in the stand, frozen to the spot, clearly recognising the dismissal for what it was. She cast a frantic glance over the stands and Hermione realised she was looking for Ron. Her lips trembled, mouth open, before she snapped it shut and nodded, following the official who led her out of the atrium.

The Chief Warlock flicked through her papers. "I would like to remind the Wizengamot not to interfere or interrupt with witness testimonies so as to not hinder the trial proceedings. If you have a question to ask the witness, refrain from doing so until the witness has finished speaking."

Hermione's eyes flitted to the man who had interrupted Rosmerta and felt a vindictive glee at the shade of plum he was turning, and an even sharper burn of approval for Ottaline Warbeck.

"The next witness is based on a memory submitted. Before the Wizengamot watched the memory, a team of Unspeakables tested it for any tampering. The memory was proved pure. Could the second witness be brought to the stand."

Harry appeared then. His hair had fallen loose of its low bun, falling in his eyes, but he had scraped it back enough that his scar was clearly visible. It stood out, stark against the white of his skin. The audience broke into a murmur, each whispering about the Boy Who Lived. Hermione very nearly rolled her eyes but she couldn't deny her gratitude to him; they needed him to milk his fame for all it was worth. He was wearing his dark grey Auror robs.

"Mr Harry Potter," said Ottaline Warbeck. Her eyes never once moved from his face. "The Wizengamot thank you for your memory. If you don't mind, we'd like to ask you a few questions about what happened the night of Albus Dumbledore's murder."

Harry's throat bobbed. "Of course."

The Chief Warlock nodded, and motioned for the woman on her left to begin. "Where had you been prior to the Astronomy Tower, Mr Potter?"

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose. "Dumbledore had taken me to a cave. I couldn't tell you where it was- he Apparated us there and back." He took a deep breath and Hermione realised quite painfully how hard it must be for him to have to relive that night. "Dumbledore had just told me about Voldemort's Horcruxes." The sound of the name elicited a sharp reaction, but Harry continued as though it fell deaf on his ears. "For those of you who don't know what Horcruxes are, they're the reason Voldemort came back. You see, from a very young age, Tom Riddle was obsessed with immortality. He found that storing a piece of your soul inside of an object came the closest to ensuring you couldn't be killed. There was only one way to split a soul: murder. Tom didn't just create one, no, that would be far too easy for him… he created seven. Unintentionally, eight.

"I'd already destroyed one without realising it, in my Second Year. And Dumbledore told me he thought he'd found another, but he couldn't get to it alone. So we went to the cave and we retrieved the Horcrux- or what we believed to be the Horcrux. I'll spare you the details," he flashed a strained smile. "If you don't mind. I still have nightmares about it sometimes… The process of getting the locket- that's what it was- was hard. Blood magic, inferi, poison. Dumbledore drank the poison. That's why he's so weak he's barely standing in my memory."

The woman nodded slowly, watching him over her glasses. "Why did Albus Dumbledore call for Severus Snape if the man was to kill him?"

Harry took a moment to ponder the question, eyes thoughtful, eyebrows furrowed slightly. Then he sighed, and said, "I'll have to tell you the whole story. I'll try keep it as brief as I can. Dumbledore was dying."

The audience broke out yet again into a crescendo of whispers. Ottaline Warbeck demanded silence before tilting her head, regarding Harry carefully. "What do you mean?"

"Dumbledore had found another Horcrux in the summer. It must have been then because I saw him in August and his hand was shrivelled and black. When he'd tried destroying it, it had cursed him. He shouldn't have lasted the year, really, but Snape had been making him some potion that delayed it-"

"Severus Snape was a known Death Eater," said the man who had interrupted earlier loudly. "How can you be sure he wasn't poisoning Dumbledore in case the Malfoy boy didn't succeed?"

Harry stared at him, then he shook his head vigorously. "Snape was never Voldemort's. He was Dumbledore's man. He was a double agent and Dumbledore made sure Snape gave Voldemort enough information to keep him valuable." He stopped and took a quick, sharp breath. "I know you saw Snape killing Dumbledore in my memory, but it's not the whole story. Dumbledore knew right from the start that Malfoy had been tasked with killing him. He also knew Voldemort didn't expect him to succeed- it was just punishment for the sins of the father. Lucius had failed him. And he was going to take his only son and heir as punishment.

"Dumbledore knew that Voldemort wanted the Elder Wand. Yeah, it's real, and Dumbledore had it. He'd won it off Grindelwald. Voldemort's plan was for Malfoy to do his dirty work, killing his only real opposition, and then he'd kill Malfoy for the Wand."

Harry looked at Draco then. Hermione had almost forgotten he was there; despite having heard the story before, and having helped him plan what information he was going to give the Wizengamot, the intricacies of the war both horrified and amazed her, especially when he told it as though he was reliving it still. She wasn't even sure whether Draco had known that, for he had gone a deathly shade of white, and his fingers were shaking violently in his lap.

"So Dumbledore made Snape promise that he'd be the one to kill him. In the end," finished Harry quietly. "Snape sacrificed his life for Malfoy. Dumbledore might have been already dying but he physically _died_ to save Malfoy. You can see from my memory he's not willing, he was just scared. Dumbledore saw that. Dumbledore always saw the truth in people… Even if he kept it to himself."

The tinge of bitterness didn't go unnoticed, and her breath left her lips as a ragged sigh. Ron heard the way it caught in her throat, and pulled her hand onto his knee so he could hold it more tightly.

"Then why did the Malfoy boy not ask Dumbledore for help beforehand?" the older gentlemen continued irritably.

Harry's face twisted in incredulity. "Did you not listen to Dumbledore in my memory? Voldemort was a Leglimens! He'd have murdered Malfoy at the first suspicion Dumbledore had cottoned onto his plan! It might be difficult for you politicians to understand but there was a bigger, more intricate game at play outside of your Ministry bubble, where it was life or death! Where one foot wrong could kill everyone you loved. It was never as simple as asking for help. There was no help! There was nothing because nobody in the Ministry with the power to do a goddamn thing did anything!"

"Mr Potter," Ottaline Warbeck's voice was a calm stone sinking to the bottom of Harry's ire.

Harry's breath was long and heavy. He stretched his neck. "I'm sorry. It's just-"

He paused. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the stand, interlocking his fingers. Pushing his glasses further up his nose, _a nervous tick,_ Hermione noted, he began to speak, "I was never close to Malfoy at school." Hermione's breath stopped in her throat. Her grip on Ron's hand tightened, knuckles turning white, nails leaving crescent scars in his skin.

"He's going off script," she whispered. Ron squeezed her hand back but said nothing.

"We were always against one another; in the House Cup, in Quidditch, in lesson, and then we were fighting against one another in a war. It didn't make sense to me. It never did, how we could go from a rivalry on the Quidditch Pitch to war. I never wanted him dead. I wanted to beat him at Quidditch but that was it. We were just kids, we were never meant to be in a war...

"I always thought it was unfair, what I was burdened with. This," Harry motioned his scar, pushing his hair out of the way so the jury and audience could see it. "I thought it was unfair that I was the only kid in the world who never had a choice. It was prophesied and how could I argue with that? How could I tell people that I wasn't the Chosen One, that I was just Harry and I was scared? I never noticed at the time because I was too worried with my own life, my own lack of a choice, but Mal- Draco never had a choice either. He was born into a world he didn't understand, not fully. He was fed a prejudice like most of you here. He was trained for slaughter, to be a loyal servant to something bigger than a 16 year old kid. He wasn't given a choice for that.

"There was one choice he made, in that war. Hermione, Ron and I had gotten complacent whilst on the run- we got ourselves caught and taken to Malfoy Manor…" Hermione closed her eyes so the room wouldn't sway. "Bellatrix Lestrange thought it might be us. She wanted to summon Him. But Draco bought us some time. He lied, said he didn't recognise us, that he couldn't be sure. We're only alive because he did that. I owe my life to him."

Harry looked at each member of the Wizengamot in turn. "The only crime you can find Draco Malfoy guilty of is doing what he had to to survive and even then, he didn't kill anyone. It was kill or be killed and he still survived the war, able to say he's not a killer. How many of you can say that? I can't. Your Chosen One can't."

It was so silent, Hermione swore she could hear every breath rattle in her chest. She looked at Draco, seeing the straightness of his spine, the desperation with which his eyes clung to Harry, as though he needed to hear him to believe it.

 _It's true!_ she wanted to tell him. _All of it. You're not a killer, not like me. You've never had blood on your hands. You've never killed. There were so many deaths but you did not cause a single one of them. Your only crime is that you weren't one of them._

"I know what you all think of me," said Harry tiredly. It was deathly silent, so silent Hermione swore she could hear everyone holding their breath. "But the truth is I'm not courageous. I'm just trying to do right. So is Draco. And sometimes, that takes all the courage in the world. I might never have been able to see eye-to-eye with him at school but Draco Malfoy is one of the most courageous men I know. And if you make an example of him after a war you _sat back and let happen_ then I can't support your government because that's not justice. It's cowardice."

Harry sat back in the stand. "Anything else?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Ottaline Warbeck dropped her head to peer across at him. "No, Mr Potter. We thank you for your testimony."

Harry nodded, dragging a hand across his face as he was led from the stand. He glanced at Draco as he passed, and pursed his lips, before looking down at his feet and disappearing from the room altogether.

Hermione's heart was racing.

"It needed to be said," was all Ron could manage.

She shook her head and looked at him, seeing him more clearly all of a sudden. "Have we just condemned Draco Malfoy?"

Before he could open his mouth to answer, the room took on a chill. Goosebumps erupted along her arms, and Hermione frowned, rubbing her skin to try and warm up. Her breath crystallized in the air. Her fingers ached from the cold. She turned to Ron, question on the tip of his tongue, when she noticed how pale he'd gotten. She followed his gaze.

"I thought they were getting rid of them," whispered Hermione.

Ron's mouth was set in a grim line. "Shacklebolt couldn't find a big enough force to replace them. There aren't enough Aurors as it is. He's still working on it."

Hermione hadn't seen one in months. There was only one, moving like a shadow had somehow crept from the ground and solidified, a figure of pure darkness gliding along the floor. It turned its hollow face to Draco, and she saw again its soulless eyes. The Dementor's breath rattled like chains being dragged along the floor as it led someone across the room.

"The third and final witness, Mr Lucius Malfoy."

Hermione froze. She felt Ron stiffen beside her. Eyes shooting to him, she saw Draco stare at his father as though he were seeing a ghost, resurrected from the dead, dredged up from his past.

"Did you-?" she started to ask but Ron cut her off.

"No."

He was unrecognisable. His hair was still long, though it was greasy and so dirty it almost looked brown. He wore the Azkaban robes, and they hung from his narrow shoulders, dangled from his sallow ribs. Lucius Malfoy's face bore no shadow of his former arrogance; his cold eyes were dull, his cheeks hollow. Hermione almost felt sorry for him.

The Dementor led him over to what looked like a larger and longer bird cage, though each bar groped inwards as well as out. Two Aurors fastened him inside, making sure to keep their distance from his shrouded guard.

"Mr Lucius Malfoy," said Ottaline Warbeck. "Thank you for agreeing to testify today."

The elder Malfoy dropped his head in a nod, but his eyes clung desperately to his son's face. Draco could barely even look at him.

"Mr Potter claimed earlier that your son was only given the task of killing Albus Dumbledore to punish you," began the Chief Warlock. "Is this true?"

Lucius tried to speak, then had to clear his throat. His voice remained sore and underused. "Yes."

"Can you elaborate on why he thought you needed to be punished?"

"I had failed him," said Lucius weakly. "The Dark Lord was… most displeased that I had failed to bring him the Prophecy and that I should allow myself to be imprisoned."

"Why would he choose to recruit your son as punishment?" asked the woman sitting on the left of the Chief Warlock. "Would it not be an honour to have your son initiated into your ranks?"

Lucius winced harshly. "He knew Draco would not succeed. He aimed to mock me, to watch me lose my son- my only heir-"

He broke off. His head lolled forward, resting against the metal bars. Hermione thought she heard him sob quietly.

"Very well, thank you, Mr Malfoy," Ottaline Warbeck's voice was softer than the other woman's. "What about the day you failed to identify Harry Potter? Can you tell us about that?"

Lucius drew himself up and nodded once. "I knew, if only Draco could say for sure that it was him- then it might restore us in the Dark Lord's favour but he- he could not… He said he couldn't be sure. The Dark Lord punished us for hours when they escaped-"

The man on the Chief Warlock's right spoke up again. "Were you proud when your son took the Mark, Malfoy?"

Lucius' eyes fell on him. His lip curled ever so slightly, his voice bordered on his old drawl. "Hawkworth," he greeted. "I'm surprised you're still allowed on the Wizengamot, after what happened with your son…"

Hawkworth's mouth tightened. "Answer the question, Malfoy."

"Yes," he replied, almost boredly. "I was proud. It was what I had been steering him towards his entire life." Hawkworth looked smug, a vindictive disgust dawning on his broad face, before Lucius added, "And then I was terrified. Because I knew my son had become just another pawn in His game. And I was powerless to save him. What father can't protect his son?" Lucius cocked his head. "Were you proud, Hawkworth, when your son ran away to join the Death Eaters? I can say hello to him for you if you'd like."

Hawkworth's face flooded crimson, and a vein jolted in his forehead, as he leaned forward. He spat, "We are nothing alike. My son was coerced- _seduced!_ \- when it was dangerous to do the right thing! Your son was groomed for that life. He was a Death Eater in training! Who's to say he still isn't! Tell me, Malfoy, did you help him pick out the mead that would've poisoned Dumbledore or did you send it him yourself?"

Lucius Malfoy stared at him and he grappled desperately for something to say. Hermione glanced between the two, eyes lingering on the smug satisfaction drying on Hawkworth's face. She mustn't have been thinking- she really couldn't have been thinking- but she shot to her feet, clambering hastily over Ron, who tried to reach for her to hold her back, and running down the steps until she was on the very bottom stand, leaning against the bannister.

" _Stop!_ "

Her scream echoed. Then it fell silent all too quickly. Hermione could hear every one of her breaths, loud, ricocheting. Her knuckles were turning white, she was clutching the railing so hard.

"Why are you doing this?" she demanded. "He's just a child!"

Lucius Malfoy's eyes flicked between her and his son.

Hawkworth sat up straighter in his seat, face turning putrid behind his bulbous moustache. He spluttered indignantly. "He is of age and will therefore be treated as an adult in a court of law!"

"He might have a Dark Mark but he never _earned_ it! He never killed anyone! He used an Unforgivable-" Hermione laughed but it was unhinged and panicky. "So have I. So has Harry. So did everyone in that war! You _know_ what his crime is! It was being on the losing side."

"Miss! Will you please sit down or I will have you removed from the courtroom!" the man had leapt to his feet, voice a roar.

But Ottaline Warbeck simply watched her curiously.

Hermione turned to her. She licked her lips because they were dry, shook her head because there was a buzz inside her temple like a little, nervy bee that wouldn't sit still. Her heart was beating so hard in her chest, and her voice shook but she made sure it was still loud, still firm and resolute so that they could not question her.

"There's no blood on Draco Malfoy's hands. There's only necessity and _my God_ , is there goodness that has been blackened by the badness of those he was forced into serving and the hypocrisy of those who survived under different circumstances. If this is the way you treat victims of war, of dictatorship and dark magic- if this is the way you treat _children_ who were just trying so desperately to survive and to _deserve_ survival, then I want no part of your new world, because you're just as bad as Voldemort was. You might just even be worse." Hermione took a final, shuddering breath. "At least he didn't pretend he was doing the right thing."

The Chief Warlock straightened her papers and said, "Trial adjourned. I do believe we can stop there."

The world fell away. Ron reached her just as her legs gave way, catching her so she didn't fall completely. She slumped against him, letting him walk her back to their seats. Hermione could feel eyes on her, so many eyes, but none of it mattered. Ron's breathing was ragged and hot against her hair but it didn't matter. They'd spent weeks trying to come up with a case, getting Harry's speech just right, making sure the memory was fine, recruiting Madam Rosmerta, and in just a few seconds, she had shattered it all.

Lucius was led away, back to his 5 square meter eternity. His eyes clung to his son's face, perhaps knowing it could be the last time he ever saw him, and he whispered something, the words dropping from his lips over and over again, heavy and remorseful: " _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm-"_

The Wizengamot filed from the room next, standing row at a time and leading out of the opposite door. Ottaline Warbeck looked back once.

"It's over," Hermione whispered, clenching her eyes shut. Her head throbbed. Her eyes stung. She wanted to leave, to be anywhere else- she wanted to be in Hogsmeade, looking over the mountains and lake as the sun kissed the world goodnight, feeling Draco by her side, his fingers through hers, the lightness of his voice as he said something sarcastic- "It's over. What have I done?"

Ron didn't say anything. He just held her close, arms around her, holding her together as she came undone.

They felt to be waiting hours.

Draco was left in his chair. He hadn't moved since the trial had started. Ron kept checking his watch and swearing, mumbling, "They shouldn't be taking so long. They've never taken so long."

Harry joined them at some point, sitting beside Hermione in silence, not replying when Ron clapped his shoulder and told him he'd done well. He simply stared at his shoes, and Hermione numbly wondered if he thought she'd ruined it too.

"I'm sorry," he said after what felt like forever.

Hermione looked at him in surprise. "For what?"

"For losing control like that." Harry swallowed, blinking quickly, looking up at the ceiling. "I didn't mean to. I'd practised what I was going to say, what I was going to talk about, so much but- in the moment, when they're asking me all these questions, trying to get the answers _they_ want to hear from me, I just- I snapped."

Without warning, he kicked the seat in front of him, burying his face in his hands. "They're hypocrites, Hermione. All of them. How can they judge us for fighting in a war they were too cowardly to fight themselves?"

She wanted to offer him something, a shred of comfort, a pat on the back, but everything fell flat. So Hermione just slid her hand into his and ran her thumb over his knuckles, hoping it might calm him down. Sure enough, his shoulders slumped. His breath escaped him.

The door reopened. The Wizengamot filed in, reclaiming their seats, sitting like crimson vultures circling their prey. Ottaline Warbeck was the last to sit. She cleared her throat and the room was devoured in silence.

"The Wizengamot has reached a verdict," she announced. Her eyes never strayed from Draco's face. "The Wizengamot find Draco Malfoy guilty."

Hermione let out a sob. She started crying, pushing the palm of her hand against her lips to smother the noise. Harry tugged her to him, holding her tight, his regret sighing into her hair. She clutched his arm, his robes. Ron put an arm around them both. The world was falling to pieces and Hermione just tried to cling on-

"However," Ottaline Warbeck continued. "The Wizengamot is a vehicle of justice. And there would be no justice in sending a child to Azkaban. Mr Malfoy's involvement with the Death Eaters is undeniable. However, he committed no serious crime; his attempts on Albus Dumbledore's life lacked real intent, and even when his life, and the life of his family was in utmost danger, Mr Malfoy still found the courage to defy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in small ways that ultimately changed the course of the war, the saving of Mr Potter's life being just one of them."

Hermione held onto Harry tighter, sitting up, not daring to breathe, hardly daring to look, just in case the fledgling hope fluttering in her chest, reborn from the ashes of her despair, would burst into flames once more. But the air had changed. Harry breathed her name. The Chief Warlock continued.

"In which case, the Wizengamot can only reach the verdict that whilst Mr Malfoy is guilty of such crimes, he was a child exploited in a terrible and unforgiving war." The Chief Warlock's lips pursed together and she cleared her throat before she continued, laying her papers down. "And the world needs a little bit of forgiveness now more than ever. Consequently, Mr Malfoy is sentenced, under Ministry Orders and the power of the Wizengamot, to complete his NEWTS and remain at Hogwarts School for a minimum of five years on probation under the care of Minerva McGonagall to help with its healing. I will ask for regular reports to ensure the sentence is suitably carried out. In the meantime, the Wizengamot is adjourned."

She stood then, and the trial was over.

Hermione collapsed on Harry. She could finally breathe freely. The world was so loud, so hypersensitive. Everything was echoing and clear and euphoric. Her heart was loose, rapidly beating, beating so fast she thought it might slip through her ribcage and do a lap of the room. The audience burst into chatter. Ron let out a victorious yell, punching the air. Harry hugged her tightly.

She disentangled herself, getting to her feet, clutching the railing so she wouldn't stumble, and almost numbly descending the stairs. She had to get to him. Her legs carried her quicker, until she was all but running. Hermione had to get to him.

The Aurors had released him from the chair, the golden strands of magic falling away like cut ribbon, the strand around his ankle disintegrating into nothing. Draco turned to face her.

He caught her just in time. Hermione launched herself at him, holding him to her, hand at the back of his head, one wrapped across his shoulders, breathing him in, relishing in how warm and solid he felt against her. His arms came up to encircle her, holding her tight, almost squeezing her, refusing to let her go. Draco's breath was shaking in her ear. His chest racked. He was sobbing. They both were.

"Hermione," he murmured, but she shushed him. She nestled her head against his neck, feeling his pulse flutter.

This was what freedom felt like, she thought dazedly. His heart by her ear, his arms around her, his sweet relief pounding in time to hers.

"You did it," Draco murmured into her hair, holding her tighter, squeezing her to him.

Hermione borrowed deeper into his neck, standing higher on her tiptoes. "No," she said. "We just helped them see the truth."

Ron squeezed Hermione's shoulder and she stepped back, wiping her curls away from her face. He stood in front of Draco and the two stared at each other for a long time.

"Weasley," said Draco, holding out his hand.

Ron laughed nervously, scratched at his neck and said, "Ah, what the hell," before pushing his hand away and pulling him into a hug. It was only brief, but it was tight and it was brimming with their relief and their gratitude and a foreign sense of commonality.

They parted hastily, sharing a closed-lip smile. Harry stepped in then. He clasped Draco's shoulder and Draco's face melted a little. His grin was soaked in relief, in a lightness Hermione thought strange on his features.

"I can't thank you enough," said Draco. "I can't thank you all enough. I- I couldn't have done any of it without you."

Harry shook his head. "I owe you my life. Twice over. You don't need to thank me."

Harry embraced him, gripping his shoulders tightly, screwing his eyes shut. Draco hugged him back with the same ferocity, the same wild, unspoken gratitude.

Hermione laughed a little, wiping her eyes and looking around. She caught Professor McGonagall's eye and sent her a watery smile. The older witch was dabbing at her eyes, and Hermione spotted the knowing curve in her pursed lipped smile.

She closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath. When Hermione opened them, she caught sight of Ottaline Warbeck, the Chief Warlock, watching them from the doorway. She was still in her crimson robes, holding her hat in her hands; she looked younger in person, without the hat shading her face, and she smiled softly when she found Hermione staring. Hermione couldn't help but smile back. She wanted to say thank you. But Ottaline just dipped her head in a nod, eyes flicking back to Draco a final time, before she turned and left.

Draco reached out. Hesitated. Then his fingers brushed Hermione's. She spun to look at him.

He stared down at her, enraptured in the pink under her eyes and the golden sparks in her hair, by the constellations freckled across her cheeks. There was so much faith in her eyes, unwavering, solid, and Hermione stared at him like she believed in him. His heart was beating wildly, but it felt apart from him; Draco knew it had slipped from his bones the moment Hermione had screamed at the Wizengamot, risking everything, calling the world out for its cruelty. His heart belonged to her. That, and his life, his hope, every second of his freedom. He would dedicate himself to her, and as Draco stared at her, pondering on how he might never have seen her ever again if only the result had been different, he wondered how much sweeter euphoria would taste on her lips.

 **AN: The much anticipated trial. I hope this was everything you hoped it would be! I know JKR said that after the war the Malfoys bought their freedom again but I honestly find that lazy writing. Post war governments DO NOT act lax enough to accept bribery from key enemy figures; Lucius Malfoy was one of Voldemort's top men. His son was literally commissioned to murder Dumbledore. Sure, the reader knows that the Malfoys pretty much abandoned Voldemort at the end of the battle but the only way that can stand up in reality is through law; that's why I tried really hard with this trial to make it seem feasible. Draco is a war criminal in the Ministry's black and white world, but it's the testimonies and witnesses that make the difference and inject a bit of humanity into the case. That's why Harry is so pivotal- Harry's word is more important than the Minister's in this post-war world because he's the "saviour." So this trial, whilst you might see it as optimistic maybe(?), I would say is more realistic based on post-war attitudes, propaganda and patronage. I really wanted to show the humanity in this post-war world. AND FINALLY- A BIT OF HAPPINESS IN THIS ANGST.**


	25. White Butterflies

**AN: So I wrote this chapter really quickly today! It's a bit of a filler, but it's mainly some respite, some calm after the storm I suppose (because last chapter was 6,000 words of PURE STORM). I know the trial was the biggest plot driving force for the first 24 chapters but trust me when I say that their story is far from over.**

 **Chapter Twenty Five- White Butterflies**

 **March**

"You're in an awfully good mood," said Ginny, plopping down at the table beside her.

Hermione glanced up from her essay, surprised. "How did you find me?"

The look on Ginny's face suggested that she shouldn't be so dense as to ask that, and her friend retrieved her own books from her bag. She didn't open them however, dropping them on the desk and using the pile to rest her arms and head on.

"When you're not sleeping, you're working," said Ginny, "and when you're working, you're usually at the library."

Hermione shot her a look, then rolled her eyes. "That's because it's usually quiet!"

Ginny grinned. She didn't reply, watching her friend duck her head and scratch her quill furiously across the page, pausing to dip it in the ink pot every now and then.

"I haven't asked," said Ginny suddenly.

Hermione glanced up at her. "Haven't asked what?"

"Why you wanted to help Malfoy," she said. Hermione stopped writing, word trailing unfinished on the parchment. "Why you roped Harry and Ron into helping him too. Why you cared about what happened to him at all, to be honest."

Hermione sighed and put her quill in her ink pot. "Ginny..."

"No," said Ginny. "Wait. I get why you didn't tell me, why Harry and Ron didn't tell me. To be honest, I'm still not sure what to think." She paused. "I guess I thought we were close. And I can't tell if I'm more hurt because it's Malfoy or because you didn't trust me enough to tell me what you were doing."

"It wasn't either of those things," said Hermione instantly. She sighed, and ran her fingers through her hair. "Ginny. I never planned this. I couldn't sleep one night so I went for a walk and I- I found him, sitting on the floor, the Ministry band around his ankle and I- Ginny, I'd never seen anyone look so broken. It felt _wrong_ that the fighting could be over but the war was still going on-"

"Can't you see how unhealthy it is, Hermione?" asked Ginny, leaning forwards. "You're treating him like he's another mistreated House Elf. Focusing all your energy on fixing someone else, maybe something that can't be fixed, to take your mind off your own pain. I-"

She reached out and took Hermione's hand, a small frown pulling her eyebrows together. "It's okay to still feel scared. To still find it hard to sleep. To still wake up sometimes thinking you're back there," Ginny whispered. "Sometimes, I do too. But you don't have to- you don't have to give all of yourself into saving him. You need to keep some of yourself for saving _you_ -"

"Ginny," said Hermione, shaking her head slightly. "You don't understand. He's my friend. I need him."

She added, more because she felt inclined to, "Besides, his trial is over. It's over now. He's safe."

"Hermione, if you think it's over, you're more oblivious than I thought."

Hermione frowned. But Ginny just stared at her, flicking between her eyes, searching her face. She must have found something, something Hermione hadn't meant to let slip, because understanding dawned in her eyes and she leaned back in her chair, letting the matter drop completely.

Hermione untangled their hands and checked her watch, jumping to her feet and shoving her books into her bag. She shot Ginny an apologetic look. "I have to go."

Her friend nodded. Then said, "Are you meeting him?"

Hermione paused. She glanced at her. "Yes."

"Can I come?"

She looked at her properly, swinging her bag onto her shoulder.

Ginny rolled her eyes and said, "I won't stay for long. I have Quidditch Practice. I just want to see what you see in him."

Hermione stared at her, then said, "Ok. Ok, sure."

The two girls walked through the castle, down the moving staircases.

"You know," said Ginny, breaking the quiet, "back before Christmas, when you were ill, Malfoy came up to me to ask where you were. Walked right up to the Gryffindor Table like he didn't give a damn and spouted out some bullshit about a Potions project or something.

"But I saw through him. He was jittery, panicked. I could tell something was up." She paused. "Thinking back now, I think he was worried about you.

"He thanked me," said Ginny after a moment. Then added, "I don't think he's ever thanked me for anything before."

Hermione stopped, taking hold of Ginny's elbow just before they reached the castle doors. "He's different," she said sincerely. "Or maybe he's not. Maybe he's just finally allowed to be himself."

Ginny didn't look convinced but she didn't comment and they carried on. March had arrived in a flurry of light; it was still cold out, but the air was crisp and fresh, holding its breath in anticipation for Spring. Sunlight spilled on the ground, and it was warm on their skin as they made their way across the grounds.

Hermione spotted him instantly. The sun near enough reflected off his golden hair, like a periscope, dancing in all the colours of the rainbow. He was wearing black slacks and a white shirt, buttoned low to his collarbone. There were still dark circles under his eyes, and his skin had a greyish tinge but his face was tipped up to the sunlight, eyes closed. A small smile played at Hermione's lips.

"That boy's broken, Hermione," said Ginny, arms folded across her chest. They'd both stopped walking, staring at him from the top of the hill. She spoke nonchalantly, as though the observation was simply that and nothing more. Hermione's throat felt tight and she shook her head.

"He's not broken," she replied.

Ginny's eyebrows raised and she switched her gaze from Draco to her friend incredulously. "Oh really?"

A white butterfly fluttered near Draco's head, and he looked up, indignant. It didn't seem to mind the fact that its presence was clearly unwanted, for it lingered nevertheless, fleetingly perching on his nose. He made a noise of protest, recoiling and his nose wrinkled. The butterfly flew away again. Hermione watched him.

"He's not broken," she repeated firmly and she had never been so sure of anything in her life.

They carried on down the grounds, and though Hermione was surprised that Ginny hadn't disappeared yet, she kept her face neutral.

"Afternoon," she greeted, once she got close enough, making sure to stand off to the side so she wouldn't block the sunlight. He deserved to bask in it a little while longer. Hermione reckoned she'd miss it too if she'd spent so long in the shadows.

Draco raised his eyebrows, tilting his head back to look at her. "Hello."

The smile spreading across his lips froze at the sight of Ginny. He scrambled to sit up straighter. "Weasley."

"Malfoy."

There was a terse silence. The breeze whispered amongst the grass, tickled the branches to make them creak.

"I'm, uh, glad to see you're not in prison," said Ginny after a while. Hermione coughed.

Draco's nose wrinkled and he laughed a little. Hermione felt her eyes widen. "Thanks, Weasley, me too."

Ginny nodded once, then looked at Hermione, then said, "I should probably get going. Quidditch Practise."

Draco nodded, and Hermione sent her friend a soft smile, reaching out and taking her hand. Ginny flushed pink, ducking her head and spinning quickly on her heel to make her way back up the hill.

"Well, that wasn't weird at all," said Draco freshly, as Hermione plopped down beside him on the grass. She hummed in agreement.

"She insisted on coming along," she said, before pausing and adding, "I think she was curious."

"About what? About me?"

"About why I consider you worth any of my time."

Draco frowned a little. "Ah," he said. "I find myself asking the same question."

Hermione didn't reply, instead pulling her bag onto her lap and digging her arm into it. "I have a present for you."

He stared at her. "You didn't have to-"

"I know," she said, then passed him a book. "But I figured you might be needing this."

Draco turned it over in his hands so he could see the cover. "'Hogwarts: A History.' Is this a joke?"

The imperceptible twitch of Hermione's lips gave her away. Draco laughed. The sound surprised her with how high and rich and lovely it was. She didn't think she'd ever heard him laugh like that.

He put it to the side and said, "Well, thank you. They did me a favour, really. I didn't have a clue what I wanted to do after exams. Now, I don't have the choice."

Hermione looked back at the castle. "I wouldn't mind staying here forever," she said. "I'm worried it will start to feel like home again just when I have to leave it."

"Then stay," said Draco. She looked at him.

"I always thought I'd work in the Ministry," she admitted. "But I've been thinking recently. I think it's more important to be here. Educating the next generation. Making sure every child has a choice." Hermione shrugged, laughing a little. "So maybe I will."

The smile was fresh and glowing on her face, and her eyes twinkled as she glanced at him. She nudged his shoulder. "I told you I'm difficult to get rid of."

Draco couldn't hide the smile from stretching across his lips. It was wiped off when another butterfly landed briefly on his nose.

"Damned bloody insect," he cursed, swatting it away from his face and glaring as it fluttered idly away.

Hermione laughed and Draco momentarily paused to look at her. "You know," she said, wrapping her arms around her legs, resting her chin on her knees. "My mum used to tell me that white butterflies were the souls of people we loved, coming back to check on us."

"Well now I feel bad for hitting it." His eyes dropped to the grass between them. "Do you believe it?"

"No," she laughed. "I think it's ridiculous. But I always see them when something's happened. It makes me feel like everything's going to be okay." Hermione paused. "That's a lot to put on a butterfly's shoulders, isn't it?"

"They do have very tiny wings."

Hermione tipped her head back and laughed. Draco could only stare at her. The sound rang like a bell, tinkling and vibrant, soaring over the lake. He tucked his arm around her shoulders, letting it hang there loosely. Her breath hitched and she shuffled a bit closer to him, her hand coming up to play with his fingers. Draco felt warm in the Springtime sun.

"Thank you," he said. Hermione shook her head, his name falling from her lips in an attempt to shush him. Draco squeezed her fingers, stopping her hand for a moment. "No. I need to say it. I- Granger, I couldn't have done any of it without you. Any of it. I'd be in a cell right now if it weren't for you."

She tried again. "Draco-"

"I'm indebted to you," he murmured. "Forever. For all eternity. Thank you."

Draco tilted his head to press a kiss to her cheek. Her skin was warm, soft. His lips lingered before he pulled away and looked back out at the lake. Hermione rested her head on his shoulder, playing with his fingers again.

The butterfly fluttered through the tree branches, skimming a million blades of grass, before soaring over the water, and up, into the sky. Draco didn't know whose soul it could be, but he thought Hermione was right. Everything felt like it would be alright.


	26. A Mother's Love

**Chapter Twenty Six- A Mother's Love**

 **April**

It was early when the parchment grew wet with ink, a single line scrawled across the middle, sloppily, almost like it had been done on the move.

Hermione knew it was early because her head felt groggy when she blinked awake, and the morning sun filtered through her curtains, still the blinding, blood-red orange of sunrise. She rolled onto her side, pulling her pillow closer to her, wondering if she couldn't sneak a few more minutes. Hermione screwed her eyes shut, a sigh escaping her lips. Consciousness crept so surely, sneaking into her brain and making it buzz so that, no matter how much her eyes ached and her head hurt, she couldn't salvage another second of sleep.

The parchment was on her bedside table, and when Hermione huffed, surrendering to the morning and sitting up in bed, her eyes snagged on the single line of writing.

 _I need you._

She sat up straighter, grabbing the parchment, resting it on her knees. Hermione's fingers flitted across the page, and the ink smudged. Swinging her legs out of bed, slipping her feet into slippers and snatching her robe off her chair, Hermione ran from her room. The parchment drifted to the floor.

Her feet clattered along the corridor. Her heart throbbed in her chest.

Hermione burst into the Room. She knew he was there. The door had opened for her immediately. The fire remained unlit. The bookcases stretched to the ceiling. It was their room.

"Draco?" she called. There was silence, for a long time, and then-

"Hermione."

She followed the voice, her feet moving on their own accord because something had broken in her name. Hermione found him down one of the aisles, head bowed, swathed in so much shadow that she almost missed him. As if on cue, the lighting in the room shifted, and she caught a glimpse of red eyes, wet cheeks, pink lips.

Hermione moved towards him quickly, reaching for his shoulder but stopping just short. "Draco, are you alright?"

When he didn't reply, she stepped closer, hand brushing his arm. Draco turned around and threw himself at her, holding her to him, and all Hermione could do was hold him back, squeezing him tightly. Draco fell apart on her shoulder, sobbing into her neck. His fingers grabbed her, digging into her skin, her hips. His heart pounded against her chest. He came undone, unravelling, and it was all she could do to grapple for his pieces to hold him together.

"Draco," she murmured, stroking his hair until his sobs had quietened. He was still clutching her tightly. "Draco, tell me, what's happened?"

"My mother- she-" he whispered into her hair, and wept. "Fuck, Granger. What am I gonna do? What the fuck am I gonna do?"

 **oOo**

There were Aurors on her door at St Mungo's.

McGonagall had given them leave to visit. She'd granted Draco's visitation immediately, something that was easier now his trial had been settled and no band flashed on his ankle. The Headmistress hadn't even asked before adding, "And you, Miss Granger. You're free to go as well."

Draco whirled round. He had considerably calmed down on the walk to the Headmistress' office and Hermione almost didn't recognise him.

"I don't need a babysitter," he sneered, at the same time as Hermione said, "Oh, Professor, I actually have a lot of work-"

"Mr Malfoy," McGonagall said in that stern voice that left no room for debate. "I understand this is an upsetting time, which is why I would prefer it if Miss Granger would accompany you to provide some support. That is my final say on the matter!"

And so, they stood outside her door, ignoring the two Aurors guarding it, boxing them in. The hospital rushed on around them. The buzz of mundanity was thick in the air.

"Relax," murmured Hermione.

She noticed the extremity of his stiffness only when he tried to loosen up.

"I'm fine," replied Draco.

She looked at him. He stared at the door. "You're trembling."

A muscle twitched in his jaw. Draco clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white to try and stop his hands from shaking.

"I don't need bloody moral support," Draco burst suddenly.

She blinked. "I know."

He nodded. Hermione watched him for a moment longer, before he slipped back into composure; there were still dark circles under his eyes, but Draco's face fell blank, and the ease with which he did so surprised her. She reached out to open the door, but he caught her wrist.

"I just- want to warn you," Draco said. "She's not very well. And she- she's what you'd expect a fascist Pureblood wife to be like-"

Hermione interrupted him. "She's your mother. She can't be all that bad if she managed to raise someone like you."

He stared at her, his eyes boring into hers, before he moved his hand to where her fingers were still holding the handle and opened the door.

"Draco."

His mother's voice was soft and awed when they entered, eyes catching on her son and lingering there, like she couldn't quite believe he was standing in front of her, tangible meteor of bounding heart and rushing blood.

Draco's smile was small and weak. "Hello mother."

Hers was the only bed in the room, and he moved to sit in the chair beside her, taking her hand when she held it out. Draco's mother was a woman with bright blue eyes, as clear as the sky, and laughter lines that far opposed the strictness of her son's face. Despite this, Hermione could see the resemblance; see the tightness and rigidity of someone who had lived in the shadows of the spotlight; who had once walked footpaths with the Devil himself. There was a haunting beauty to her, like her son.

Azkaban had been kinder to her than most, but it had nonetheless left its mark. Her cheeks were deathly hollow. Her skin pallid and waxy. Her hair, though still the colour of pure sunlight, had darkened, even greyed in some parts. Her eyes were dull.

Narcissa stared at her son, eyes, alight, drinking him in, taking in every detail, every crook of his eyelash and vein under his skin. Her other hand came up, her fingers slender and white, but shaking, pausing in the air as if he would disappear should she touch him. Draco stayed very still. A small sob left his mother's mouth, as he leaned into her palm, and he screwed his eyes shut. She pulled him into a tight embrace, and he clutched his mother like she was his lifeline. His knuckles were white, fingers delving into her robes. His head was buried in her neck, her fingers smoothing down his lovely blond hair.

Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.

His mother opened her eyes, and her smile softened when she saw Hermione standing in the doorway. She patted Draco's shoulder and he detached himself, sitting back in the chair, his eyes tracing the tiles on the floor.

"You must be Hermione," she said. "I don't believe we've ever been formally introduced."

Hermione swallowed, stepping closer and offering her hand. "Yes. It's a pleasure to meet you."

But Narcissa brushed her hand away, pulling her close. Her arms were warm and strong for such an ill woman, and Hermione momentarily felt the rush of remembrance. Closing her eyes, she leaned into the embrace. She had not been held by a mother for a long time.

Hermione pulled another chair up to the bed, and tucked her hands under her knees, watching Draco as he spoke in a low voice to his mother. Narcissa asked him about school, about whether or not he was sleeping, eating, studying, and Hermione found there was something comforting in the chastising exasperation of her voice when she discovered Draco's latest Transfiguration grade. Still, his smile never left his face. It was small, almost invisible, barely a curve of his lips, but it was there.

His mother held his hand the whole time, her thumb sweeping over his knuckles.

They visited her as much as they could. Hermione never dared ask for updates on his mother's health; the first time she had done so, Draco had shut down completely, and hadn't spoken to her for a couple of days, until she'd broached an entirely different topic and asked if he'd done the Potions essay yet. The visits usually went like this: they would turn up; his mother would hug them; Draco often brought a book to read to her, usually Shakespeare, or they sat in content quiet, savouring the serenity. Sometimes, Hermione would wait outside, other times, she sat beside Draco, their knees bumping, fingers inches apart.

"I'm grateful you came," his mother told him one day, interrupting him mid-sentence as he read.

Draco paused, eyes lingering on the words on the page before they flitted to look at her face. He didn't say anything, just offered her his hand to hold and continued reading. He spoke quietly, if at all, to her, often resolving to sitting at her bedside and taking her hand when she reached for him. He rarely smiled, though occasionally his mother said the right thing to wring a droplet of happiness from him, and Draco's face would crinkle, his lips quirking, and Hermione would catch a glimpse of the child he used to be.

Narcissa Malfoy was many things, though a fascist she was not, though perhaps that was simply because war and malady had wrung her of her supremacy and left her little more than a breathing corpse, who could only smile, sleep and listen to the books her son read to her. Hermione found she was a rather cultured woman, who bore the sparkle of wisdom in her impossibly bright eyes and spoke with an air that suggested she knew something you didn't and was uncontainable with her thrill at the fact. Nevertheless, she quite liked Draco's mother and that was only partially attributable to the stories from his childhood she shared with her, much to her son's chagrin.

"Draco," his mother said one day. "Will you be a dear and get me a drink?"

Her son didn't argue, merely dragged himself to his feet, tapping the back of Hermione's chair and looking down at her. "Do you want anything, Granger?"

"Um, a coffee would be nice. Thank you."

He nodded and left, but not before pausing in the doorway and giving them both a final, searching look. Hermione absentmindedly picked at some skin on her finger. The door clicked shut. They were left alone together.

"You saved him," said Narcissa, breaking the silence. She was watching her, and Hermione shifted on the chair. She shook her head.

"We just helped-"

"Hermione." She fell silent, and Narcissa's eyes were as light and icy as Draco's. "Without you, my son would likely be in Azkaban."

"He doesn't belong there," murmured Hermione. "I couldn't let him go down for something he hadn't done."

Narcissa regarded her for a moment. "As a mother, I had always hoped Draco might amount to something. Lucius had his own aspirations, of course, as his heir, he had always had his own plans for our son. I never anticipated those plans would turn out the way they did." She paused, perhaps catching her breath. Tears spilled over her eyelashes. "I failed him. I'm his mother and I failed him."

Hermione took the other woman's hand and held it between both of hers, leaning forward.

"You haven't failed him," she said, almost pleaded. "Draco's an incredible man. You made him that. He's kind, and he's thoughtful. He can be unsociable but he always cares. He's funny and sometimes he makes me want to rip my hair out, but I l-" Hermione's breath tumbled from her lips, her chest heaving. "I really appreciate your son, Mrs Malfoy-"

"Narcissa." Hermione blinked. The older woman smiled, and her eyes crinkled. Hermione smiled softly.

"He's fond of you, you know," she said. Hermione only stared at her, feeling heat rush to her cheeks. Narcissa brushed a curl away from her face, and Hermione was surprised to find her hands were warm. "I haven't seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."

She didn't reply, though his mother was not concerned because she continued softly, almost wistfully, staring at the slit in the curtains, where the light sifted in from the sky, "Like a blind man seeing the sun for the first time."

Hermione's smile was watery and breathless. "It's a privilege to know him," she admitted.

His mother squeezed her hand and she looked at her, into her. "It is. When he's feeling sociable." Hermione laughed, she couldn't help it. She was well accustomed to his scowl, the way his eyebrows pulled together and his lips turned down in a frown when he found her presence displeasing. But she also couldn't help but think of his blinding smile, of the lightness of his laugh when it soared, of his eyes when he looked at her, at her lips-

"And it's a privilege to be loved by him." The laugh stopped in her throat, and Hermione stared at her, eyes wide. She opened her mouth to correct her but she wasn't quick enough, or the words wouldn't come quick enough maybe. Narcissa gave her a knowing look. "I know my son, Hermione." Then, her face grew soft, her voice gentle. "With Draco, it's a warmth. That starts here." She lifted a bony finger and held it at Hermione's chest. "And spreads outward until you feel like you might be consumed, and you feel safe. Like you could live a life and die fulfilled at the end of it."

"He'll make it hard, though," Narcissa continued, and she laughed a little. "He was always so difficult. Like his father. He'll punish himself and pretend he feels nothing, a Malfoy trait, I'm afraid. He'll be distant and think he's helping you when he's really just driving you both to despair." She squeezed Hermione's fingers again and looked at her. "But Draco loves so passionately. He needs to be loved. He has so much of it, going to waste inside of him, that I'm worried he shall burst from the feeling of it all. Do you understand what I'm saying, Hermione?"

Hermione nodded numbly, though she was saved from answering when the door opened, and Draco appeared again. He was carrying three mugs, balanced between both hands. He froze when he saw how closely they were sitting, eyebrows twitching together in a frown. Narcissa shot her a closed-lipped smile, though Hermione was sure it was more a smirk, and similar to one she'd seen before.

Draco gave them both their drinks, then sat back in his chair. There was silence and Hermione tried not to slurp on her coffee, even though it burnt her lips.

Draco went to take a drink, but pulled back and said, "If I hear you were fucking bonding over all the embarrassing stories of my childhood, I'll Avada myself right now."

Hermione burst out laughing, her coffee spilling over the sides. Narcissa snorted rather unladylike. The two women shared a glance and Draco swore again. His mother swatted him for his language.

 **oOo**

It was one weekend, when the sun was sinking beneath the windowpane, and Hermione was curled up on a chair by the window, sleeping because they had been there for hours, that his mother turned to him.

She put her hand on the book, lowering it, and Draco stopped speaking, and looked at her. His mother tapped her lips, motioning to where Hermione slept, and when Draco's eyes snagged on the chair by the window, she reached up and held his cheek so he would focus on her.

"I thought I'd only ever see you on the front of the papers," his mother whispered. Her eyes traced over every line of his face, every individual eyelash and shadow, as though she would never get to see him again. "I thought I'd have to watch you grow up in ink."

Draco's throat tightened, and he simply stared at her. There was a guarded vulnerability to him, to the stillness of his chest.

"We forced a lot on you," she said, her face taut and pursed. Her eyes were wet with tears. She was nodding slightly. "A lot of bad. But you found your own little bit of goodness. Don't let anyone take that away from you, Draco."

He looked away because he couldn't bear to see her cry. His mother, the woman who had loved him and stroked down his hair and kissed him goodnight every time he fell asleep, was dying, and there was nothing, no magic or prayer, that could bring her back. There was nothing he could do to save her. He had never felt so powerless.

His mother brushed his hair back, smoothing the crease of his frown, and Draco forced himself to look at her. She was still crying, silently, because for her entire life, she'd had to be silent and it seemed she would not break the delicacy, not even in death. He wrapped his arms around her, grasping her tightly, holding on.

His mother patted his back, smoothing circles by his shoulder blades, drawing wings, and Draco climbed onto the bed beside her, curling up like he used to when his father was out and he'd had a bad nightmare, when the blackness had groped from every corner, clawing at him. She had always held him close and shielded him. She had always fought away the monsters after him.

He hoped, as he curled up by her side, clutching her to him as the warmth drained from her, weeping into her chest, that she had fought away the monster within him. It had to be enough now because soon there would be nothing.

 **AN: Sorry for the delay! I've been super busy with school lately. Unfortunately, updates will probably be sparing for the moment just because my exams are coming up in about a month and they last for a month-ish. It's all very worrying but writing gets me through it. (Writing, and the GOT FINAL SEASON!). Some of this you might recognise from The Light, if you read my other fic, just because I'm very short on time recently to write anything of good quality but I wanted to give you an update. I might re-write this chapter in the summer with something more original, but for the time being, I've copied a bit from TL. Shameless, I know. Also, about Narcissa- I feel like she will have had to do a bit of time in Azkaban so this chapter is basically, she's been moved temporarily to St Mungos until her health gets better (she's only in their for accessory, so they can afford to be lenient to her, I think). I hope you all enjoyed this chapter.**


	27. Where Did It All Go Wrong?

**AN: I'M BACK! I know, it feels like I've been gone forever but my exams are over so I'm back to writing again. Fear not, this story will never be abandoned. I have it all planned out. Thank you all for commenting and sending so much love, it genuinely keeps me motivated. I can't tell you how much you all mean to me. I took some liberties here regarding the Dark Mark because, despite my googling, it looks as though the books don't actually specify whether Draco even had the Mark, even though the films suggest he had one before Sixth Year and definitely the night Dumbledore died. Hence, this is my interpretation. I hope this was worth the wait.**

 **Chapter Twenty Seven- Where Did It All Go Wrong?**

 **April**

The room was quiet when she entered; the fire was out, a shadow draped across the settees. Hermione dropped her bag on the floor, eyes searching for any sign that he might be here. He'd been avoiding her for some reason. Though she wasn't sure if it was her specifically, or the ongoing mundanity of life that reminded him of how fragile and fleeting his mother was in comparison.

"Draco?"

There was a scuffle from the back of the room, and as Hermione made her way towards it, she caught the light dancing on the ceiling, pooling under the bookshelves. She turned the corner and found him sitting on the floor, wand alight beside him. He'd shoved his robes off, and rolled his sleeves up; the buttons of his shirt were haphazardly done. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin was waxy and pale. He didn't look like he'd slept. Books were piled around him, some open, some placed down, spines stretched to save the page. Hermione cringed but didn't say anything. She tried to get a look at the titles without making it conspicuous, sinking to sit opposite him.

"Have you eaten today?"

Draco licked his lips, eyes darting to her and back to the book in his lap. Hermione sighed.

"You have to eat," she said. "You're no use to anyone if you're starved and exhausted."

" _Hermione_ -" His voice was strained and the sound of her name on his lips was such a rare thing that she stopped. Draco looked at her. His eyes were bloodshot. Hermione opened her mouth to say something but he shook his head.

"It's that place," he murmured. "It's that place that's killing her. If I can- if I can get her out. If I can prove-"

"If you can prove what?" asked Hermione, leaning forward. His entire body seized up. "You're the only one who knows what happened, what she did, or didn't do. Draco, you need to tell me. That's the only way I can help."

He shook his head again, pressing his fists into his eyes. His chest heaved.

Hermione chewed her lip and glanced away. She took one of the books from the unopened pile and placed it on her knees, ignoring his warm gaze when he looked at her. The book was on Wizarding Law and she traced her finger down the contents to try and determine which chapter she should start on, stuttering when she came to _War._

"Draco," she started. She forced herself to look at him. "What did your mother do in the war?"

Again, he shook his head, more vigorously this time. "She's in for accessory. She never killed anyone but- but she was there for a lot of it. It was her house. She couldn't escape it. I wasn't allowed at the trial so I don't know what other legal specifics they got her on but the Wizengamot were divided until the end."

"Why?"

He sent her a bitter smile. "She doesn't have the Mark. She never did. It's hard to convict someone of being a Death Eater if they don't have the membership stamp to show for it."

Hermione pressed her lips thin. "When did you get yours?"

Draco shifted, his throat visibly convulsing and Hermione wanted to take the question back. She said quickly, "The summer before our sixth year, we followed you into Knockturn Alley. Harry thought you were up to something-"

He scoffed, shoulders relaxing.

Hermione allowed herself a small smile and added bashfully, "Harry _always_ thought you were up to something. You went to Borgin and Burkes, I think to look at the cabinet. Harry was convinced you had the Dark Mark. I told him he was being ridiculous. I thought you were bluffing."

"More fool you, Granger," said Draco in a low voice. Hermione's eyes shot to him.

"So you had one then?"

A muscle in his jaw ticked as he looked away. He shook his head once. "No."

She frowned, gaze flicking to his arm. It was empty and a distant part of her felt a sliver of relief. Her relief was soon swallowed up by hot shame, pooling in her stomach. _You have scars too. What right do you have to judge?_

"Don't worry, Granger. It won't break your streak of being right." Draco cracked a small smile, but it died quickly. The light from his wand seemed to flicker, casting his face in deeper shadow. Hermione non-verbally lit hers, placing it on the shelf above her head. He leaned his head back, watching her through hooded, grey eyes. "He never expected me to actually kill Dumbledore. Or fix the cabinet, for that matter."

Hermione opened her mouth to speak then closed it. She frowned. "Then why-?"

"After my father's failure in securing the prophecy, he needed to make sure my family paid," said Draco, eyes latched on hers. She couldn't escape them. "Azkaban wasn't bad enough. He had to punish him. He had to make an example of what happened to those who failed him."

Hermione's lips parted in realisation. "So he gave his son the impossible mission. If you failed, as he expected, it would suffice as punishment for your father. If you succeeded, his greatest threat, the only wizard powerful enough to beat him, would be dead and he'd gain a new soldier as a result of it. It was never about glory," she closed her eyes, shaking her head. "It was a suicide mission."

Draco cleared his throat and shrugged. "I knew what it was, Granger."

There was no anger in his voice. No upset or frustration. Just resignation. Once again, it hit her quite suddenly how resigned Draco Malfoy was to his death.

"You know," she said, placing the book on the floor beside her and tucking her knees up to her chest. Draco raised an eyebrow. "I used to think you were the most powerful boy in the world."

His other eyebrow shot up and he stared at her for a moment before blinking once and bursting into raucous laughter. Hermione huffed, but she couldn't help the smile curling her lips. His laugh always sounded like a bird song, like freedom and euphoria. It was too rare she heard it. It seemed to choke him, scrape his throat, almost like it had been too long and he was out of practise, like he had forgotten what it was to laugh.

"Or privileged… But I suppose they're often synonymous."

Draco dragged a hand down his face. "Do continue, Granger. I'm intrigued to know where you pulled this assessment from."

"You were always in control," said Hermione, shrugging, though her cheeks were flushed. "It was clear you came from money and power and your name spoke for itself. I was Muggleborn and yet even I knew the weight of your name within the week. Everything always worked out so well for you, everything always in your favour. You were eleven and you walked around like you owned the place! I guess with your father's position both on the board of governors and in the Ministry, you did. Indirectly, at least. You must have felt like you were on top of the world."

Draco had sobered. He was watching her keenly now, with a strange glint in his eye, head tilted ever so slightly to one side. "And yet, you always put me in my place."

Hermione blinked.

"That's how I wanted it to be," said Draco. "That's how I'd always envisioned it. Riding the coattails of my father's name. I turned up to Hogwarts expecting to own the place, as you say, and what did I get? A swotty Muggleborn with hair like an uprooted birds' nest knocking me down every peg on the ladder. I was never in control when you were there, Granger."

Hermione stared at him. Draco let out a small laugh, rubbing his chin. She realised there was a bit of blond scruff clinging to his skin.

"Yeah, Granger. You always reminded me how small I was. You can be quite cutting."

She swallowed. "You deserved it."

"I'm not saying I didn't." He paused and then said, "The punch was a bit much though-"

"The punch was _absolutely not-"_

"You broke my nose!"

"You deserved a lot worse!"

"The damned bird deserved worse-"

Hermione slapped his leg and he jumped away, shooting her a glare. Her face broke into a grin.

"You're telling me you had the world at your feet and _I_ made you feel small?" Her smile widened. "If I'd have known the effect I had on you, I'd have put you in your place more often."

He huffed. Hermione watched him, smile fading fast from her lips, eyes catching the shadows of his face. He looked so much older, much more tired than the pristine, powerful boy she'd met in First Year. She found, strangely, though she'd never admit it, that she mourned the boy he used to be, the one whose biggest battle was a headstrong eleven year old girl with bushy hair.

"Where did it all go wrong?" she asked quietly.

"I used to ask myself that," replied Draco. His voice was hoarse. He tried to clear it. "I used to blame my father. During sixth year, when I was trying to fix the cabinet and wondering how the fuck I was meant to kill the greatest wizard that ever lived, I blamed him. His failures. I knew I was his punishment. I knew I was dead the moment I failed, if I even lived to fail. I knew my parents were dead too.

"I never even thought I'd get as far as I did," he admitted. "I thought the Dark Lord would change his mind and kill me outright."

"Is that why he didn't give you the Mark then?" Hermione licked her lips and forced herself to finish, even though the thought hurt to even utter. "Because he thought you were disposable?"

Draco shrugged one shoulder. "I think it was the shock of his life when I got the cabinet working and Dumbledore was dead. In the end, it didn't matter who did it."

"No," she murmured, tracing the lines of his face. "No, of course it didn't. He never cared about you. He wanted the Wand."

Draco frowned. "What wand?"

"The Elder Wand. It didn't matter who killed Dumbledore, Voldemort was always going to kill you. Two birds, one stone."

Draco recoiled. "Am I a bird?"

"Muggle saying," she offered him a wry smile. A quiet settled over them. Hermione flicked through the book on her right.

"He marked me that night," said Draco suddenly. Her hand froze. "After Dumbledore died, we got out pretty quick before the Ministry could arrive. He was waiting for us at the Manor." His tongue darted out to wet his lips and every breath trickled harshly from his body as though he was trying to control himself, even as his chest convulsed with panic. "I can't tell if he did it to reward me, in some sick, twisted show, or if it was just another nail in my parents' coffin. I remember almost passing out from the pain… Part of me thought he was killing me.

"I don't remember anything afterwards. I just remember the agony, like he was burning me alive, from the inside out. I don't think I screamed, but I bit my lip and tongue and cheek that my mouth was full of blood and I thought I might choke on that instead. Part of me hoped I would. But I woke up the next morning in my bed with my mother sitting next to me, holding my hand, and that- that fucking- that _thing_ on my arm-"

He broke off, closing his eyes tightly and looking away.

"Is that where it went wrong?" she asked.

Draco dragged a hand down his face and muttered, "I think it went wrong the moment I was fucking born." He laughed, but the sound was more scornful than amused. "What did you say? Privilege is power? It didn't feel that way at times, Granger. I felt like I was suffocating, like everyone was suffocating me-"

His head dropped back against the shelf with a dull thud.

"Everyone has always wanted something from me, Granger."

Hermione let out a shaky breath and whispered, "I just want you to be happy, Draco."

His eyes caught hers. There was a second where all that could be heard was their breathing.

"You know, I wanted to die, Granger. I tried very hard to die. It felt like some sick joke that I came out of it alive." He took a deep breath and his admission felt like the most important thing in the world, heavy and poignant as it hung in the silent air between them. "But I think I'm remembering how to live again."

She felt more tears fall from her eyes but made no move to wipe at them. Instead, Hermione moved the books to one side, shuffling across the floor to sit beside him, resting her head on his shoulder and feeling the warmth of his body. His chest shuddered.

"I'm glad you're alive, Draco," she said.

 **oOoOoOo**

 _Harry,_

 _I need your help. I know you have a lot on at the moment (when do you not?) but this is very important, and you know I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't absolutely necessary._

 _Narcissa Malfoy has taken ill. She's currently at St Mungo's. I went to visit her with Draco and it's not looking good. Draco is working himself into the ground trying to find a way to exonerate her but we're coming up blank._

 _You mentioned that Narcissa helped you in the war. I know you don't like to talk about it and you know I'd never ask otherwise but is what she did significant? Is it enough to save her?_

 _Please reply as quickly as you can. Time is of the essence._

 _Hermione_

 **oOoOoOo**

 _Hermione,_

 _I can get time off work this week. I'll sort it._

 _She saved my life._

 _Harry_


	28. Black and White

**Chapter Twenty Eight- Black and White**

 **May**

If Hermione never stepped foot in the Ministry courtrooms ever again in her life, it would still be too soon.

Her heart clenched painfully in her chest, throat going dry. The high atrium ceiling was still suffocating and claustrophobic, and the Wizengamot sat, facing outwards, a sea of withdrawn and sombre faces, their crimson robes and square hats reminding her of the last trial she'd attended, making her heart race even faster. As if on cue, Hermione's eyes drifted past them to the chair in the centre of the room.

Narcissa Malfoy looked worse than when they'd visited her at St Mungo's, her hair was limp and pale yellow, frail hands resting on the armrests, though she sat tall in the chair, and her long and slender fingers were still adorned with rings, and though Hermione couldn't see her face from where she was sitting, she spotted the Healers at the side of the room and thanked every God listening for Harry. He'd sent her a second Owl only a day after his first reply, telling her that Narcissa Malfoy's sentence was to be re-examined in light of her health and new evidence.

Hermione had never seen Draco look so hopeful, a glint in his grey eyes, but he'd just nodded, swallowing thickly, lip trembling as it curled, "Always Saint Potter," he'd said. He wasn't at the trial. He wasn't allowed to leave Hogwarts. Hermione had left him in the Room of Requirement, where he'd been pretending to read, flicking the page periodically even though she could see his eyes remained fixed to a single point. She'd wanted to hold his hand and tell him things would work out, that he could trust Harry, but every word fell to ash on her tongue and so she'd kept quiet, leaving him there, forcing herself to look forward when all she wanted was to look back. Draco's eyes had followed her until she'd disappeared. She had felt them.

Hermione shifted in her seat, chewing on her fingernail. She was alone today. Ron couldn't get the time off but she wished desperately that he was there to whisper badly timed jokes in her ear so it didn't all feel so terribly pessimistic.

There had been more charges against Draco, but Draco was a child. He hadn't already spent six months in Azkaban.

Suddenly, the Chief Warlock stood. Hermione's heart leapt to her throat. She sat a little straighter.

"Narcissa Malfoy," her magnified voice echoed around the room. "Your sentence is being reviewed as a result of new evidence brought to the attention of the Wizengamot. You had been carrying out the sentence decreed by your first trial in Azkaban, but a recent health problem had you transferred to St Mungos to be treated. Is this information correct?"

The Malfoy matriarch's head dipped in a slight nod. Her voice was throaty, low and quiet. It did not shake, nor did it crack. It wavered with the gentle warble of an aristocrat. "Yes, that is correct."

"There is only one witness for today's proceedings," the Chief Warlock continued, reviewing her papers. "I can't see this taking much time but said witness has a tendency to keep us occupied so we should begin as quickly as possible."

Hermione swore she saw the corner of Ottaline Warbeck's lips twitch before the woman cleared her throat, raising her head and said, "Bring in the witness."

The doors swung open and Harry was led into the witness box. He didn't appear nervous, expression carefully blank, but Hermione knew her friend too well to not spot the almost obsessive way he kept pushing on the bridge of his glasses, even when they hadn't slid an inch.

The woman on Ottaline Warbeck's left cleared her throat. "Mr Potter, you claim to have new evidence pertaining to Mrs Malfoy's involvement in the war. Pray tell, why are you only coming forward with this now? Why not at Mrs Malfoy's first trial?"

Harry shifted in his seat, and Hermione saw the way his throat bobbed, the chords of his neck tightening. His forehead shone with a slight sheen of sweat.

"I wasn't right for a long time after the war," he began hesitantly, shuffling forward. "To be honest, sometimes I still think I have some way to go before-" He broke off, eyes growing dull and distant. "If I'm ever going to be right again. I saw things that changed me, things that I can never unsee. Things I still see when I close my eyes. I- was very badly messed up. I ca-" He winced. "I couldn't cope. I missed Mrs Malfoy's trial just like I missed everything. There's no other reason for not coming forward until now. I was selfish, I was focusing on my next breath and nothing else, and I'm trying to make up for that."

Hermione felt her chest break, her heart shatter. She closed her eyes, the tears falling down her cheeks. There was a hollowness in Harry's voice that tore at her. She knew it had been hard for him. She never knew how hard.

"Thank you, Mr Potter. The Wizengamot appreciates your commitment to justice." Harry's lips twisted in a sardonic smirk. Just a hint of one. "Can you tell me how Mrs Malfoy comes into this?"

He froze in his seat, colour draining from his face. Silence fell over the courtroom. The seconds ticked by, and Hermione frowned. Harry didn't move, just stared at the woman for a very long time, chest still, breathing stagnant. She watched him, watched the twitch of his eye, the way his glasses slipped down his nose and he neglected to push them back up, whispered his name under her breath, willing him to talk, willing him to somehow find the words.

Harry didn't talk about the war.

Hermione only knew bits of what happened at The Battle of Hogwarts; she knew what she'd seen and what she'd done, the scenes she'd strayed across that still haunted her- Lavender's waxy and ravaged neck, that same neck that Ron had kissed when it pulsed with vitality, now ripped open and oozing; Colin Creevy's tiny body dwarfed on the stretcher as he was carried to the Main Hall, the moonlight making his veins shine blue and cold; Ginny's scream, her throat-tearing, heart-breaking scream, as Hermione held her shoulders and told her about Fred; Fred-

She only heard snippets of everything else. Harry's role was little more than legend, the rumours and stories of his heroism still circulating the papers and school hallways nearly a year on. The war was still so fresh, like untracked snow, and though various people had asked him a couple times what actually happened in the forest, he had either smiled close-lipped, a secretive smile that was really nothing more than the taut stretching of his lips, or, if the question was more personal, suspended in an air that was fragile and intimate, he would explode.

Hermione had asked him once, the night of his birthday party. She'd found him alone in the Burrow kitchen, clutching the sink, chest heaving, eyes closed, glasses sweating with the steam from his breath. The summer air had been humid, heavy and unrelenting, pushing down on them, making her hair frizz and spark, and the din of the celebrations outside fell deaf on their ears as soon as the door had swung shut. Hermione had spotted him, asking him if he was alright before she could see the tension in his shoulders and the pain wrinkling his face, the question trailing off, lost in the humidity.

"Harry?"

He had inhaled sharply, falling forward. Hermione pressed a hand to his back, stopping at his side, recoiling when he flinched.

"Harry," she whispered. "Harry, what's wrong?"

But Harry hadn't replied, knuckles tightening on the sink, nails pressed into his palms. Her eyes flitted over every inch of him.

"It's just so-" he began after a long enduring stretch of silence, breaking off. Without warning, he punched the countertop so hard it splintered. "Hard! It's so hard, Hermione. I- I don't know how I'm meant to go on living when I-"

Hermione swallowed. She moved closer, resting her hand on his arm. "What, Harry?"

But Harry shook his head. His entire face screwed up, every line of it soaked with agony, anguish ripping through him, and he broke. She caught him against her body when his hands slipped, holding him up. "Harry," she murmured tentatively. "Harry, what happened in the forest?"

He went still, leaning into her. Hermione could hear every one of his breaths shake against her skin, his pulse racing so quickly she swore she could hear that too. "I can't, Hermione. I- I can't- I can't-"

Harry started to breathe heavily again, hyperventilating, fingers digging into her side. He pressed his forehead hard against her shoulder. Hermione rubbed his back, making soothing noises, keeping her voice level even as the tears fell from her eyes. "It's okay," she had said. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me."

And he didn't. Not that night. Not ever.

Now, Harry swallowed. His eyes darted behind his glasses, before falling on Narcissa, from whom he did not look elsewhere. His chest heaved.

"She saved my life."

Murmurs broke out, among the Wizengamot and the sparsely arranged audience in attendance. Ottaline Warbeck regarded him for a moment, her face giving nothing away. The woman on her left called for quiet.

"I went to confront Voldemort alone," continued Harry. "He tried to kill me but I survived. Narcissa was the one he sent to check… and she told him I was dead. She lied to him. She defied him. She asked me if Draco was alive and in return, she lied to Voldemort. That's the only reason I'm alive. It's the only reason Voldemort's dead and we're sitting here now. That's gotta stand for something, right?"

The Chief Warlock dipped her head in a solemn nod. "Indeed." She pressed her lips into a line, looking down at her papers and then across at Harry. "What do you suggest we do, Mr Potter?"

Harry regained a little bit of himself, lips curling in a slight smirk, pale colour entering his cheeks. "Honestly? I'd overrule your first sentence. She doesn't deserve Azkaban and you know it. I don't blame you. You had a lot of actual Death Eaters to deal with and Narcissa Malfoy was just an inconvenience to you."

"So you'd let her walk free?"

Hermione's eyes shot to the member of the Wizengamot who had spoken. She recognised him as the man from Draco's trial. Hawkworth sneered.

"You asked me honestly," said Harry, shrugging, but his face remained stoic.

The man leaned forward, hat slipping down his head, crimson robe swaying. "Is the Wizengamot some kind of joke to you, Mr Potter-?"

"Hawkworth, if you cannot control your outbursts, leave."

Hawkworth spluttered, rearing back and folding his arms firmly across his chest. He looked like he wanted to protest, but kept blissfully quiet. The Chief Warlock did not blink, merely continued to watch Harry.

"It would seem that the new evidence is overwhelming," she announced. "I see no reason for the jury to discuss. Mrs Malfoy will be promptly freed from Azkaban Prison. She will serve house arrest with specialised visits supervised by a Ministry-approved Auror. Mrs Malfoy, on behalf of the Wizengamot, we apologise for the injustice served to you. We are not a vindictive body. We strive for justice but the path to fairness is too often paved with unfair mistakes. Thank you, Mr Potter, for bringing your testimony forward to help us serve that justice. If that will be all. Trial adjourned."

Ottaline Warbeck stood, gathering her papers to her chest, and turned before the sentence could even be properly digested. The Wizengamot shuffled in their seats, buzzing with anxiety, a murmuring mass of confusion.

Hermione sat for a moment, sharing their shock. Harry blinked, then looked about the room, eyes scanning the audience. They caught hers. She nodded, dazed, and started her way down the bleacher, meeting him at the bottom of the steps.

"Miss Granger."

Hermione turned. Narcissa Malfoy stopped before her, still regal in her grey robes. She took her hands and clasped them within her own. "Thank you."

Hermione started to speak, small, incoherent excuses that she really had nothing to thank her for but Narcissa squeezed her hands, shaking her head, a small smile lighting her face. She looked younger when she smiled, though perhaps the weight of Azkaban had already been lifted from her slight shoulders.

"Hermione. Thank you. For my son and myself. My family is indebted to you. Irrevocably."

Suddenly hot, Hermione shook her head. "Oh- oh no, Mrs- Narcissa, please, you're not- I only did what anyone would do-"

"A lie," countered Narcissa, a touch amused. "But no matter. You're not just anyone. Neither are you, Mr Potter."

Still holding Hermione's hands, the Malfoy matriarch looked at Harry. She sobered, but the warmth remained in her eyes and face and the expression softened her. "You must know, Mr Potter, that I didn't lie to save you. I lied to save my son."

"I know," said Harry.

"I know you're not close with Draco," she continued. Her smile grew shrewd, eyes narrowing as though she was observing a particularly tricky puzzle. "Though I don't presume that this was in any way for me either."

Harry's lips quirked in a small, half-smile. "You didn't deserve Azkaban, Mrs Malfoy. Sometimes it really is that black and white."

Narcissa regarded him for a few moments longer, eyes flitting across his face. She blinked, then smiled, almost sadly.

A Healer approached from behind, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Narcissa nodded once. She squeezed Hermione's hands again, smiling at the two. "I hope to see you soon," she said, before turning on her heel and walking away, the Healer following behind her.

Hermione looked at Harry. He raised his eyebrows. "Well, that was odd."

She couldn't help herself. She laughed, wrapping an arm around his waist, falling into him as they left, muffling her laughter against his shirt. Her body thrummed with relief. She felt dizzy. She couldn't wait to tell Draco.

Hawkworth stopped them before they could escape the courtroom, hand snagging Harry's upper arm and drawing him back. Hermione stumbled away. He tugged Harry closer and snarled in his ear, "Are you trying to save all the Death Eaters, Mr Potter?"

Harry's gaze never even wavered. "Not at all. In fact, I believe we have the same intentions, sir."

"And what's that?"

Harry smiled. "Serving justice."

He pulled his arm free and touched Hermione's back, leading her from the room. Hawkworth didn't follow. As soon as they were out, Harry stepped away and said, "I need to get back to work. Said I'd drop in on Ron to let him know how it went."

"Oh."

Hermione stared at him. He flashed her a quick smile before setting off down the hallway.

"Harry," she called. His name was wrenched from her lips before she could stop it.

He turned to face her.

The corridor was deserted, the white walls so bright her eyes hurt, his name ricocheting off the equally white ceiling. Hermione felt like it was just the two of them left in the world, like she could feel his erratic and fragile heart beating on her skin, the same way it had done in the Burrow's kitchen that evening all those months ago. His lips quirked slightly, sadly. His head dropped.

"Ask me."

She swallowed, unable to move. "What happened in the forest?"

Harry's face twitched, crumbling then relaxing as he took a deep breath and said simply, "I died."

Hermione's breath left her. Something dropped in her stomach. She shook her head and whispered, "Harry, how-?"

"I was his last Horcrux, his mistake, the unintentional eighth. I was just like the others. I had to be destroyed... to destroy him. It was the only way to kill him. I knew that when I didn't come out of the forest, either you or Ron would finish it for me. So I let him kill me."

He spoke so simply but Hermione saw the agony etched deep into every line of his face. He looked suddenly older, not the eighteen year old he was, but tired and old, as though his very spirit was exhausted with living.

"I died Hermione and yet, here I am. I'm breathing. I'm here. Sometimes I have to check my pulse to make sure it's not my imagination. I sometimes wonder if some parts of me are still dead. If they never came back, I- I dunno. It's still hard for me to process."

His voice was a murmur, cracking with honesty, breaking from a truth that had weighed him down all these months. This was not an explosion. Harry did not pop; he deflated, finally worn down.

"Dumbledore raised you like a pig for slaughter," she said. Her voice was calm and tempered to her own ears, which surprised her. Inside, Hermione could feel her fury coiling, her blood boiling, the need to scream at the old man who had left the weight of the world on the shoulders of a child, and all the while known that he must die in the end.

"Yeah," said Harry. "He did." His eyes fell to the floor. His voice shook. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you-"

She finally moved towards him, cutting him off, holding him to her. He was warm and soft and home and the mere thought that she had been on a planet, even if only for a few short seconds, without Harry Potter, made Hermione tighten her grip on him. She hugged him closer to her, fingers clutching his shirt, head pressed deep into his shoulder.

"Don't," she said fiercely. "Don't you dare apologise. This wasn't your fault. He- Dumbledore should have never have put that on you."

"It's not just that-" Harry's voice was mumbled. She felt it reverberate against her skin. "I just- I don't know why- Why me, Hermione? Why not Fred? Why not Lupin and Tonks? Why did I get to survive when they all-?"

He cut off sharply.

"It's not your fault, Harry," was all Hermione whispered.

Harry's breath escaped him as a rush, almost as if he was breathing for the first time since that fateful night. "I've never told anyone that," he murmured into her hair. "I'm sorry."

 **oOo**

The sun was low in the sky when Hermione returned to the castle, stepping out of the Headmistress' fireplace and patting herself down. McGonagall was sitting at her desk, marking essays. She glanced up, peering at her over her half-rimmed spectacles.

Hermione opened her mouth to speak-

"I'll not keep you, Miss Granger," said McGonagall, eyes returning to her work. "I'm sure you have somewhere to be."

Hermione closed her mouth and smiled, taking off from the Headmistress' office and trying very hard not to break into a run until she'd descended the spiral staircase and stepped out onto the school corridor.

She knew where he'd be. She knew he wouldn't have moved an inch since she left him at lunchtime.

Her heart raced, thrumming in exultation, desperate to find him and tell him, if only to grant him some reprieve, if only to help him sleep a few more hours at night-

She only stopped running when she got to the Room of Requirement. Draco stood up as soon as he saw her. They stared at one another, her chest heaving, his deceptively still.

"She's free," said Hermione, nodding, curls sticking to her cheeks.

She didn't have to say anything else. He was across the room in a heartbeat, throwing his arms around her and lifting her up, holding her to his body, burying his head in her hair. Hermione's arms wrapped around his neck in instinct. Draco was firm and unrelenting, pressed hard against her. He was crying, squeezing her tighter, his mouth was moving against the skin of her neck-

 _"Thank you, thank you, thank you,"_ and he kept repeating it, each sob like a breath of clear air, each thanks like a whisper of a kiss.

 **AN: I know the film implies that Hermione realises that Harry has to die in order for Voldemort to be defeated when they say goodbye in the Battle of Hogwarts but I wasn't sure whether the books ever mentioned it, or even if Harry ever told anyone. My characterisation of Harry is as follows: I think he would have kept it to himself; I think dying would have really impacted him and shifted something inside of him, and that he can't now deal with the idea of his mortality and why he came back when so many others didn't. Harry is the literal embodiment of survivor's guilt and that's what I really wanted to convey when writing this chapter. Hence, his painful admission to Hermione. As well though, I think it must have been harrowing for Harry to realise that Dumbledore, whom he idolised and thought was his mentor and friend, simply used him as another pawn to be moved around. This is only my interpretation, none of this fic is even remotely canon, just loosely inspired by book/film events. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter despite the lack of Dramione.**


	29. Some Hope

**AN: Hi guys! Sorry I've been so rubbish at updating! I've kind of lost a bit of inspiration for the fic and started another Tomione AU which I have more inspiration for, but I received a few really lovely reviews this past week that have given me the motivation to sit down and write! Things are PROGRESSING in this slowest of slow burns, I promise you.**

 **Chapter Twenty Nine – Some Hope**

 **June**

The day of his birthday, Draco slept in.

He knew without having looked at the clock, because his head felt heavy and his chest light, and the way the sunlight filtered through the kelp and seaweed on the lakebed was brighter than usual, sunflower yellow instead of muted and dull. It rippled across his bed, dancing along the pale expanse of his skin. He raised his hand and watched it flit through his fingers.

Another year gone. Another three hundred and sixty five days. Another twelve months. Time was flitting through his fingers, sifting like the sands of an hourglass. It had scared him before, how quickly his stolen life was carrying on, as though the war hadn't happened, as though hundreds and thousands of people hadn't had their time cut brutally short whilst he stumbled on.

Draco breathed deeply, hand falling to his chest.

Eighteen. Before him stretched the responsible and trying years of adulthood and for all that he felt he had been born anew, a gasping infant to such a new and unfamiliar world, Draco simultaneously felt like the same boy that had hidden his shaking hands in the sleeves of his robes on September 1st all those years ago. The burden of duty had always weighed him down, first his name, then the Mark, and though he remained burdened with both, there was something lingering in the air that morning that made him breathe more freely. His future was stretched before him, an unending, winding road, but Draco swore there was some glimmer of light, some hope, waiting for him at the end.

It was a strange feeling, one he had not felt in such a long time, but it was unforgettable, impossible to ignore. A lazy smile pulled at his lips.

Draco allowed himself a few more seconds in bed, the comfort and warmth foreign but welcome, before he couldn't justify it any longer and got up. It was a weekend, early June, summer in full bloom. He buttoned up his shirt, then stopped abruptly, catching sight of the dark, garish smudge on his forearm in the mirror, where the sleeve had slipped.

Freezing, he stared at it. Before he diverted his eyes, straightened his shirt and rolled both sleeves to his elbows. The cream Blaise had given him for Christmas was locked and warded in his drawer, and Draco reversed the magic, taking the tub and sitting on his bed. He turned his arm, skin pale, the Mark dark, and he only stared at it for a moment or two before he began to apply the cream, relishing in the way every line disappeared under his fingers.

It felt odd, tingling as the magic took effect. It felt like a second chance.

Draco put it back in his bedside table drawer, warding it shut again, and slid his shoes on before he left. He knew nobody would either care or remember his birthday, but he couldn't shake the slightly euphoric feeling in his stomach, the victory that he had survived this far, that things were finally looking up.

The Common Room was almost empty as he passed through it, making his way to breakfast. If the sunlight bathing his room was anything to go by, most people would be outside or down in Hogsmeade. At least the castle would be quiet today.

Draco found Blaise immediately when he entered The Great Hall, moving over to sit beside him and helping himself to some food. His friend didn't acknowledge him, merely slid a black tub to him.

"Happy Birthday," said Blaise, before continuing with his breakfast.

Draco stared at the gift. He took it and put it in his pocket. "Thank you."

Blaise nodded, glancing sideways at him and smiling slightly, bumping their shoulders. "Didn't think you'd make it to eighteen, Drake."

"Neither did I."

Blaise clenched his jaw, smile fading, before he said, in a quieter voice, "I'm glad you did though, mate."

Draco swallowed thickly, reaching for Blaise's hand to squeeze his knuckles before they both returned to eating.

They had not eaten very much, however, by the time Hermione slid onto the bench opposite them, grinning, hair blown wild, lips and cheeks pink.

"Happy Birthday!" she beamed, passing him a present wrapped in golden paper which had him rolling his eyes despite himself.

"Couldn't help yourself, Granger?"

Her smile simply widened and she shrugged, plating herself up some breakfast and said, "I'll make a Gryffindor of you yet, Malfoy."

Draco's eyes widened in horror and she burst out laughing, tipping her head back. He watched her, only tearing his eyes away when he tuned into the murmurs floating down the table. The eyes darted away when they caught him looking, but it was enough to make his entire body tense. His fingers dug into the wrapping paper.

"Granger," he muttered, leaning forward slightly. She hummed, but didn't look at him, reaching for the bacon a little further down the table. "This is the Slytherin Table."

Hermione rolled her eyes and said, sarcasm thick in her voice, "Thank you for that information, Draco. Insightful as ever."

He gritted his teeth. Blaise simply laughed.

"Hogwarts' War Heroine can sit wherever the fuck she so pleases!" he exclaimed, eyes twinkling, eyebrows raised. "Isn't that right, Granger?"

"Exactly right."

Draco looked between the two of them cautiously, as though they were conspiring against him, teaming up to take him down. He felt Hermione's eyes flick to him a couple of times and realised he was still holding his present.

Blushing slightly, Draco looked at it, running his hands over the gold paper. It was immaculately wrapped and taped, the Muggle way, not that he expected anything less, and he slid his finger along the seam, taking care not to rip it. He imagined her sitting on her dormitory floor, mismatched lengths of cellotape hanging off every doorknob, bed post, table and drawers, fingers nimbly folding the wrapping paper into place. His lips curved into a small smile.

When the wrapping paper fell away, his hands froze. The scarf was woollen and emerald and silver, neatly knitted, with little silver snakes and flowers in each corner. Draco ran his fingers over it. It was much softer than he had expected, and his finger snagged on a few frays and odd knots where she'd gone wrong. She hadn't used magic. She'd made it herself. For him.

"I didn't know what to get you," began Hermione nervously, nose wrinkling, fingers drumming on the table. "I was considering a different colour, blue actually because sometimes, your eyes look blue in the light, but then I know you would've laughed at me for giving you something that matches your eyes so I just played it safe-"

"Hermione."

She blinked, lips pressing into a line. Draco couldn't help but smile at her, reaching across the table to squeeze her fingers. "It's perfect. Thank you."

"I had a lot of practise," she admitted, looking away from him. "With the things I've made for the House Elves over the years."

Draco rolled his eyes, exasperation drenching his voice when he muttered, "You and those bloody House Elves."

Hermione smiled despite herself, her entire face lighting up, eyes bright, lips wide, teeth shining, and Draco swallowed. She lit up, like one of the stars, blinding, reminding him there was hope after all.

"You're an incredibly difficult person to buy for, you know," she said. "What to buy a person who has everything."

She laughed a little, tucking some hair behind her ear, and Draco stared at her. _Not everything_ , he thought. _Not you._

The post arrived later than usual, given the fact it was the weekend, and Draco's eyes widened when three owls landed in front of him, one dropping a letter on his plate before soaring back round to land by his arm, the other two carrying a conspicuously shaped parcel, wrapped in brown paper, tied with string; the latter two birds crashed into the table, knocking over goblets and upending plates of food. Blaise threw his arms up as his beans spilled out onto the table. Hermione had had the foresight to gather her plate and drink and hold them out of the way, pursing her lips together.

Draco swallowed. People were watching him now, glancing over, but he paid them no mind. He took the letter and recognised it immediately, breath stalling in his throat. She always left the 'o' of his name on an errant, flyaway curl. Instead of opening it, he ran his thumb across his name in his mother's handwriting and folded the letter in half and slipped it in his pocket.

The second delivery made him hesitate. There was a note attached to the string, and Draco couldn't stop the laugh when he flipped it over and read it. He shook his head. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was under the wrapping, but Draco still felt the surprise bubble in his chest at the broomstick on the table in front of him. It was the newest model, slick, black handle, gelled sticks sharpened to a point.

"Is that-?" began Blaise, but he broke off. It was the first time in a while he had heard his friend sound so genuinely lost for words. Draco couldn't answer him. "From who? Because no offense but you're not the most popular guy around at the moment-"

He checked the note for himself. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

Hermione was watching him when Draco looked at her. She shrugged and said, "I told them your Gringotts account was suspended until the end of your probation. Clearly, they interpret necessity as a broomstick."

Draco stared at her for a very long time, until she was shifting in her seat and frowning back at him, before he stood from the bench, broom in hand, and moved around the table to stand in front of her. Hermione watched him warily.

He offered her his hand. "You promised me."

Hermione felt her cheeks flush. Her eyes flicked to his outstretched hand and back. "I didn't promise," she said quickly. "It was only an offer, really, a suggestion, if you will-"

"Well, I'm taking you up on it."

He wiggled his hand for emphasis, and Hermione saw the smugness of his faux-patient face. She grimaced.

"Hermione," said Draco, pouting slightly. "It is my birthday."

He heard her swallow, but then her fingers hesitantly touched his, hand sliding to hold his own, and Draco pulled her to her feet and out of the Great Hall. He heard Blaise call after them and Hermione admonishing him and pulling at his hand but he didn't stop, dragging her until the fresh, summer air had washed over them, and sweat beaded on their hairlines, didn't stop until she was laughing and running to keep up with him, didn't stop until they got to the Quidditch Pitch and he'd swung his leg over his new broom, and looked at her.

Her cheeks had flushed pink, eyes bright and wide, hair wild. She was breathing heavily, beaming up at him and he was momentarily struck by how young she looked, how free. She did not look like a soldier, like a war veteran, like someone who had witnessed and delivered death. She looked like a teenage girl with big, brown eyes and pink lips and a futile, desperate hope perching in her heart that the world was a good place after all, that it would be good to them.

Draco held his arm out to help her on and Hermione moved with little objection, letting him pull her waist as his hands settled her in front of him. He stopped. She was so close to him that he could smell her shampoo, and the jasmine on her breath, feel the heat of her back against his chest, the softness of her curls against his nose. His hand slipped from her waist to wrap around her front, pulling her against him. Draco could feel her pulse fluttering on each of his fingertips.

"Are you ready, Granger?" he murmured against her ear.

Her hand lifted to squeeze his. "Always, Draco."

Without another word, he took a deep breath and pushed off. Hermione didn't scream this time. She laughed, her euphoria tumbling from her lips, catching in the air, like music to his ears. Draco clutched her tighter and soared higher, faster. The sky was blue and endless. There were clouds above their heads, grazing their skin with unshed water droplets, but summer was light and fresh for them, and the future felt open and ready for the taking, laid out like all the freedom in the world. The sun warmed their skin, forced them to squint. He wondered if heaven was a place or a feeling because surely, surely no feeling could ever beat this. No light would ever be so blinding.

Hermione dipped her head back, leaning it against his shoulder, tipping her chin into his jaw, and closing her eyes. The smile played at her lips. Draco's eyes caught on her. As they ascended the sky, he pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to her skin.

When he pulled back, he met her gaze only briefly before he looked ahead, swerving the broom and dropping them into a feint. A gasp was torn from Hermione's throat. They plummeted to the ground, earth coming up to meet them. The air rushed upwards, squeezing their bodies, ripping at their clothes and hair. Draco leaned into her, moving them both lower to the handle and they went faster, dropped faster. Hermione squeezed his fingers so hard he swore they would break.

He pulled out of it, right at the last minute. Flying along the ground, so low that the grass tickled their ankles, Draco came to a gentle stop. He didn't let go of her immediately. They both panted, lives on the line, blood rushing to their heads.

She dropped her head onto his shoulder again, eyes closed. Draco leaned his head against hers.

He wanted to kiss her. It had been so long he had forgotten what it felt like to kiss her but he knew, with all his heart, that freedom would never taste sweeter than on Hermione Granger's lips. He wanted to see if he could taste the jasmine on her tongue.

But she moved, clambering off the broom, his hand falling away from her. She stumbled back from him, trying fruitlessly to manage her hair, and Draco swallowed back the feeling, swallowed everything.

Hermione laughed slightly and fixed him with a knowing smile. "I still hate flying."

He forced his lips to curve. "I guess we'll have to get used to agreeing to disagree."

"I guess we will."

Draco clutched the broom tighter, knuckles turning white.

"I'm going back up," he said, eyes meeting hers only for a brief second before he had pushed off again.

Hermione frowned. Her eyes followed him until he became a spec in the sky, before she made her way to the bleachers, finding a seat in the empty crowd and unshrinking a book she had stashed in her cardigan pocket that morning. She kept her eyes on him, smiling as he dipped in and out of the sparse clouds, euphoria tangible and infectious in the air, even from this distance. The book on her lap remained open but she had yet to read a page.

Hermione didn't look away from the figure in the sky when she felt someone sit next to her.

"Is your book interesting?" asked Blaise pleasantly, crossing one leg over the other and clasping his hands around his knees. He squinted up at Draco.

She cleared her throat, adjusting her book and turning the page. "Very, thank you for asking."

"Have you read it before?"

Hermione pursed her lips.

Blaise continued casually, leaning his head closer, "I'm only asking because I notice you haven't read a word."

She pulled a face, the sunlight blinding her, her irritation at Blaise making her face crinkle in displeasure. Hermione closed her book and swivelled in her seat to look at him.

"What do you want?"

He raised his eyebrows, glancing down at her.

As he opened his mouth to reply, Hermione cut him off and said, "Because if it's not important then kindly bugger off. I'm reading."

Blaise let out a low whistle and laughed, the smile crinkling his eyes. He shook his head almost fondly.

"You've changed, Granger-"

She huffed, blowing a curl away from her face and looking away again. "We've all changed."

Blaise smirked. "Yeah but you-" He let out a chuckle and Hermione glared at him. "There used to be a time when you couldn't hear the name Malfoy without twitching for your wand."

"Things have changed, Zabini."

"Not everything."

Hermione looked at him carefully. He looked like a bronze statue, she thought, carved from impeccable lines, the cut of his jaw and cheeks sharp and precise. Blaise wasn't looking at her, skin glowing in the midday sun, dark eyes unreadable as he watched Draco dive and speed so close to the ground, she instinctively curled her fingers in her skirt.

"You know," said Blaise, "the first conversation I ever had with Draco was about the prissy little Gryffindor Mudblood who'd bested him on a First Year Potions test."

Hermione snorted.

"Then, it was Draco moaning that the Heir of Slytherin couldn't even do his job once he found out you'd been Petrified."

Her smile dropped. She took a deep breath and clutched the material of her skirt tighter.

"And Third Year- fuck, he didn't shut up. First it was that bloody Hippogriff and then you had to go and punch him and I never heard the end of that! You broke his nose, you know."

"Good," said Hermione, crossing her arms. "He deserved it."

Blaise's lips quirked. "I'm sure. He left Pansy at the Yule Ball in Fourth Year. They'd had an argument. Massive one. Whole of Slytherin heard it. They didn't speak for two weeks after because he couldn't stop staring at another girl."

Hermione swallowed. She shook her head, closing her eyes briefly and said, "Blaise, why are you-?"

"Fifth Year- did you ever notice Draco and Pansy would always get incredibly frisky in the corridors on the nights of your patrol? I told him it was on the nose but he just snapped at me and told me it was none of my business who he was shagging after hours. I told him it was none of yours either."

Blaise dragged his eyes to her. "You visited him in Sixth Year didn't you." It wasn't a question. He didn't even give her the liberty of pretending. "After Potter sliced him open-"

"Harry-" she began in his defence and Blaise stopped, raising his eyebrows. Hermione pressed her lips into a line.

"Why did you go?"

She stared at him.

Blaise stared back. "Why did Draco not identify you at Malfoy Manor?"

Hermione glanced at the boy in question, willing for him to fly closer to interrupt this interrogation or fly so far away as to render every answer she could give meaningless.

"Why did you stay with him in the Hospital Wing, Hermione? Why did you testify for him? Why did you save his mother?"

"Are you quite done, Zabini?"

Her voice was little more than a whisper, strained, and she pressed her arms tighter against her chest. Blaise's gaze, like his questions, was unrelenting. His last one was worst of all and her stomach flipped like it had when she was flying with Draco and he'd pulled out of the dive quite suddenly in the very second before collision:

"Do you love him, Granger?"

Hermione recoiled backwards, nearly slipping off the bench, book falling from her knees, pages flapping, spine bending. She ducked hastily to pick it up and straighten it, smoothing out the crooked pages, before holding it to her chest and standing as far away as she could from him on the bleacher.

Blaise watched her. His lips were pressed together, turned down at the edges, his eyes clinging to her. Hermione couldn't bear the sadness there.

"If you don't mind, Zabini," she began, pushing some hair from her face. "I have somewhere to be. Tell Draco if I don't see him later, that I hope he has a good birthday. Please."

She closed her mouth, nodding, before she spun on her heel and walked quickly away from him.

"Hermione," he called after her but she ignored him, disappearing from view.

Blaise sat back. He closed his eyes, shaking his head, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fucking hell, Granger. You've only gone and fallen in love with the git."


	30. Home

**AN: I truly need to thank you all for your patience. I suppose although they have yet to officially declare their feelings, the whole point of the fic is this kind of skinny love that waits in the side-lines and even supports you as you put yourself back together. To me, Dramione is very much a healing relationship that can only happen if both Hermione and Draco grow and whilst they have both been instrumental to the other's healing process, they (especially Draco) have been forced to come to terms with who they are first and realise they can be loved for who they are, that they are enough, scars and all. Skinny love is the most beautiful, I think. I hope this story reflects that.**

 **Chapter Thirty - Home**

Exam season swept in with the pollen. June witnessed the Fifth, Seventh and Eighth Year students of Hogwarts trapped inside the library and classrooms, milling in and out of The Great Hall, all the while the summer stretched on outside. The castle took on an intense sense of concentration, though the calm exploded in a crescendo of relief at the end of every exam, lighting a brief spark of excitement and anxiety that infected every corridor and common room. They were paving the way for their futures, but the moment was overshadowed by the sheer relief they had survived long enough to close the examination booklet and escape outside.

Hermione found Draco one evening sitting on the bank of the Black Lake, books open but untouched beside him, light creeping lower in the sky, though still laced through the gold of his hair. She sat next to him, tucking her knees under her chin and sighed loudly.

Draco raised an eyebrow at her. "Don't bring your stress here, Granger."

She huffed, shooting him a scowl. "There's no free table in the library. Suck it up, Malfoy."

He smiled despite himself.

"How are your exams going so far?" asked Hermione. "Oh! And what did you think of the final Transfiguration question? The laws and nature of conjuration are two separate things so I thought it odd that they seemed to ask for both together in a four mark question. I think I got them all though-"

"We should go for a swim," he said.

Hermione blinked. "Excuse me?"

Draco smiled slightly and looked down at her. Eyebrows raised and voice patient, he said, "You're stress is stressing me out. Let's go for a swim."

"Where?"

His smile dropped and he shot her a look that clearly implied it was a stupid question and said, "The lake, obviously."

Hermione's eyes widened. She quickly looked at the lake in question, still and calm, water glistening and rippling orange and pink, sunset soaking into the lakebed and lighting it on fire. Her lips pursed. "Students aren't supposed to swim in the Black Lake," she told him.

Draco rolled his eyes and climbed to his feet. "I'm sure you've broken worse rules over the years."

She flushed pink. "That's different!" she countered hotly. "Those were life and death situations!"

"Cursing Edgecombe in Fifth Year was life and death? I must have missed those stakes."

"I'm not surprised, you were so far up Umbridge's arse, it's a wonder you got your O.W.L's done-"

He inhaled sharply, bending low to haul her to her feet and an undignified shriek tore from her lips as she barrelled into him. Draco raised his eyebrows. Hermione thwacked him and he stumbled backwards, catching himself before he fell down the banking. They glared at one another.

Draco let out a long breath before he kicked his shoes off, pulling off his socks and tucking them inside his brogues. Then he unlooped his belt from his trousers, dropping it at his feet.

Hermione's eyes widened as he started to unbutton his shirt and she spun on her heel, hand flying to cup her hot cheek. "What are you doing?" she exclaimed, horrified to hear the squeak in her voice.

Her cheeks grew hotter when she heard the slight lilt of amusement in his voice. "I'm not going in fully dressed, Granger. My shirt alone is probably worth more than your entire wardrobe."

She rolled her eyes and bit back scathingly, "Don't tell me – your underwear is designer too?"

"Thinking about my underwear, Granger?"

Hermione let out a little mortified moan, burying her face in her hands.

"I'll keep my pants on," said Draco impatiently. "I won't offend your prudish sensibilities."

She took a deep breath, lowering her hands and turned slowly to face him. Her eyes drank in the sight of him, breath catching in her throat.

His hair shone golden in the warm, evening sun, threaded through with yellow and pink and lilac. His skin was porcelain, smooth and unblemished- until his chest. Hermione couldn't look away. The scars shone white, thick and long, running the entire length of his torso as though someone had tried to gut him or slice him open from chin to pelvis. He looked like a statue that had been shattered and painstakingly glued back together again. She stumbled forward, hand trembling as she reached up to touch his skin.

"Did Harry-?" she began but the question was too painful.

Draco nodded. "I was about to use the Cruciatus Curse on him."

She froze, fingers tracing one of the scars. Hermione's eyes flicked to his. She could feel his heart racing in her palm.

Nodding, Hermione stepped back again and forced herself to bend down to unlace her shoes, reaching under her skirt to peel her tights off. She unbuttoned her cardigan, folding it and placing it over the rest of her clothes, before standing straight and looking at Draco. She raised her eyebrows at him.

Draco swallowed thickly, and his eyes flitted the length of her before he caught himself and looked away. "Well." He cleared his throat. "The lake's not going to swim itself."

"How very astute of you."

He pursed his lips and said, "Right," before he moved towards her and threw her over his shoulder. Hermione protested, warning him, repeating his name, pushing against his bare back and wriggling in his hold. "Your sarcasm is truly grating today, Granger."

"Bugger off! Put me down, Draco."

But he ignored her, carrying her all the way to the lake, until the water was deep enough, where he dropped her in. Hermione screamed, the sound cut off as she went under.

When she broke the surface, she spluttered and coughed, gasping for breath. Draco was howling with laughter.

"You bastard!"

"Now, now, Granger," he grinned. "There's no need for that kind of language."

Hermione launched herself at him, dragging him down with her and his laughter stopped.

They played like that for what felt like hours, the water cooling their skin, rejuvenating their souls, their laughter loud and free.

When they grew tired, Hermione swam towards him and he caught her in his arms, their breathing magnified in the small space between them. She hugged him to her, closing her eyes, hands splayed across his back.

Hermione pulled away, arms tightening around his neck, looking across the water and leaning her head against his.

Hogwarts sat atop the sloping lawn, rising into the sky, turrets piercing the sun, the rows of windows winking and twinkling. She felt something lodge in her throat at the sight of the castle, knowing it concealed hundreds of stone hallways and secret rooms, her warm, crimson Common Room and all the crackling fires that had comforted her, the Great Hall with all its memories and every classroom of her childhood.

She felt the tear, warm against her cold lips and admitted, "I'm going to miss it."

Draco swallowed. "I'm coming back. Hard to get emotional about a place you're not sure is your home or your prison."

Hermione's hands were cold and damp on his jaw, turning his head to face her. Her eyebrows had pulled together slightly. "Hogwarts will always be your home."

He licked his lips, searching her eyes for something, before gently moving his head away, her hand lingering in the air. "I don't feel like I really have a home," murmured Draco, and though he spoke quietly and softly, the words still made ripples on the water between them.

"Of course you do," she said. "Home doesn't have to be a place. It's wherever you feel safest. It's wherever you want it to be."

His arm around her waist, holding her up as they both treaded water, her wet hair clinging to his neck, her chest warm against his, heart beating, racing, Draco looked down at her and thought this was exactly where he wanted to be. The sun had exploded now, that slow and vibrant eruption of colour, the last of the day's light leaking into the sky, staining it pink and yellow and orange. It drenched them, soaked them to the bone, and they were colourful too, painted in the colours of summer.

The birds were singing their goodnights, dragonflies flitting lazily across the surface of the water. His heart felt settled in his chest, body drowsy. Draco held her tighter, resting his head against hers and he knew Hogwarts could never be home to him without Hermione Granger.

 **oOo**

The summer holidays dawned on them quicker than anyone anticipated, school breaking up in an uninterrupted series of finales: the final breakfast devoured; the final exam completed; the final night in the House dormitory.

Gryffindor Tower had been lit up and explosive all night, the party raucous and rowdy and everything epitomising the Lions it entertained. Hermione didn't let go of Ginny's hand, letting her pass her drink after drink, laughing as she endeavoured to set up Neville and Hannah, and dancing with her friend at the turn of every song. Ginny had kissed her on each cheek when the night finally went to sleep, mumbling that she loved her, even if Hermione loved the ferret. Hermione had squeezed her hands and told her to get some sleep.

They were a couple hours into the train journey back to King's Cross when Hermione excused herself from the compartment with her friends. Nobody asked where she was going, though Ginny gave her a knowing look, even sending her a quick wink which triggered her to blush profusely and mutter something about the toilet.

She didn't go to the toilet, however, heading in the opposite direction, glancing casually into every compartment as she walked the length of the train, spotting his signature white hair immediately, relief flooding her body.

Hermione slid the door open and plopped onto the seat opposite him.

"McGonagall said yes, then?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "No, Granger, I'm a stowaway."

She narrowed her eyes at him, throwing her hair over her shoulder and said, "I told you she'd be fine with you going home for the summer. Have you told your mother?"

His breath noticeably stuttered. "I wrote to her yesterday," he said.

"She'll be overjoyed to see you, Draco," said Hermione softly. He nodded, jaw ticking as he cast his eyes out the window.

"She's invited you to stay at the Manor for a few days, whenever you're free," he said after a long moment, still not looking at her. "Don't feel obliged to. I think she likes you."

Hermione chewed on her lip, fingers automatically playing with the sleeve of her shirt. His eyes flicked to her, then her arm, before they returned to the window.

"I know the Manor isn't a place you ever want to return to," said Draco quietly. "But my mother has assured me she's redecorated it floor to ceiling. It was the place of her nightmares too."

She stared at him, her thumb absently stroking her scar. "I'd love to come visit your mother, Draco."

He glanced at her then nodded. "I'll let her know."

The door slid open abruptly, scraping and screeching as it was wrenched along-

"Fuck me, longest piss of my life, Drake-"

Blaise stopped in the doorway, eyes snagging on Hermione. She clenched her jaw to refrain from saying something impulsive and looked away from him.

"I wasn't aware there was a lady or I would've minded my profanity."

"Please don't feel like you have to on account of me," said Hermione, straightening her skirt over her knees.

Draco stood then, clasping Blaise's shoulder and said, "Right, I'll go. Won't be long." He cast a smirk behind him. "Don't miss me too much, Granger."

He disappeared and Blaise stepped into the compartment, the door sliding shut behind him. He moved to occupy the space Draco had sat in. Silence settled over them, filled only by the rumbling engine of the train under their feet and the occasional whistling of the wheels on the tracks.

Blaise looked at her. Hermione held her breath.

"Granger," he began after a heavy sigh. "About what I said-"

"Don't. I don't want to talk about it, Zabini."

He nodded silently. Hermione watched the countryside pass by the window, blurring into a continuous stretch of green and blue. She could feel the unfinished conversation crackling between them and knew that he wasn't going to drop it.

Blaise took a deep breath and stared at her, before his face cracked, lips straining, eyes becoming pained, and he leaned forward and said, "Granger, your love will break him." Her eyes shot to him. There was no sign of the cool and collected Blaise Zabini she had thought she'd known. This boy was desperate and vulnerable, a stranger to her. "It will break him. If you're not sure, if you don't mean it, then please, I'm begging you now Granger, leave Draco alone."

Hermione shook her head. Tears spilled from her eyes. "I can't," she whispered.

Blaise smiled, but it was small and somewhat sad. "I didn't think so. Be gentle with him, Granger. He loves you too."

The door to the compartment slid open and Draco appeared, taking a seat next to Hermione. He stretched his arm along the back of the seat, his fingers brushing her shoulder. She kept her eyes on Blaise, until the other boy looked away first.

Draco looked at her, knuckles grazing her skin, a small frown pulling at his eyebrows. "You alright?"

Hermione nodded, pressed her lips into a line and forced them to smile. "Yeah. I'm fine."

 **oOo**

Hermione shifted on the doorstep, tugging at her dress, hoping her hair hadn't escaped the meticulous braids she'd spent hours perfecting. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, breathing accelerating. She closed her eyes and tried to steady herself. Her entire body trembled violently.

The war was still with her, everywhere she went. Inevitably, she knew it would be for the rest of her life. The world remained in such turmoil that the year's anniversary had come and gone, the Ministry issuing a series of pamphlets and articles, focusing their attentions on the ongoing trials and complete overhaul of the government, though Harry had written to her to warn her of rumours about an upcoming celebration ball which had her stomach coiling with premature anxiety.

McGonagall had conducted a simple assembly on the school grounds to remember the fallen in May; Hermione had avoided it, the twelve months condensing into a second since the Battle of Hogwarts, and she felt her grief rip through her anew. She'd hidden in the Room of Requirement for some peace and quiet, willing it to not let anybody in with her, and broken down. Her legs had collapsed and she'd screamed and sobbed and wept for the things she had seen and the things she had done and all the people she had left behind.

But this place- this place still haunted her at night. She still felt the phantom agony of Bellatrix's curse, her forearm burning.

The door opened suddenly and Draco stood before her, eyebrow raised, lips twitching. "I wasn't sure for how much longer you were going to stand on my doorstep so I took the liberty of deciding for you."

Hermione pursed her lips, painfully aware of the blush staining her cheeks. "How very kind of you."

"Well, my mother didn't raise no heathen." He stepped back to let her in. "Come on, Granger. My mother has been practically bursting to see you."

Hermione felt her heart stop in her throat and she froze on the doorstep. Draco glanced back at her, eyes flicking between hers. He stepped close and took her hand, murmuring, "It's alright, Granger. Trust me."

She did, letting him lead her into the house and close the door behind her. Her eyes immediately explored the entryway, head craning back to take in every detail.

"I told you," Draco muttered in her ear, dropping her hand. "Mother has been busy."

The dark walls Hermione remembered from the war had been completely repainted in a deep gold on the lower level, though the upstairs ascended into a traditional mural, depicting some historical or biblical story, women in white dresses and horses and knights in shining armour, stretching to a bronze ceiling, reminding Hermione of a Keats poem she had once read. The staircase was stone, run with a rum-coloured carpet, lined with golden railings that stretched around the upstairs balcony. Golden brackets with daffodil lamps adorned the walls, interspaced by marble busts and regal chairs and full suits of armour. The floor was black and white diamond tile.

"Hermione," greeted Narcissa, coming from the arch to the left of the staircase, folding her into her arms once she got close enough. "How lovely to see you again."

Hermione awkwardly patted her back. "And you, Narcissa. How are you?"

The Malfoy matriarch stepped back, clasping her hands in front of her, and smiled. "I'm very well. How do you like the décor? Draco thought it a tad too Gryffindor when I asked him."

Draco rolled his eyes and Hermione couldn't help but laugh. "It's beautiful. Not too much at all."

Narcissa hummed, looking about the grand entryway. "Harry said I didn't go far enough, that I should have used more crimson."

Hermione jolted. "Harry's been here?"

"Why yes, dear," replied Narcissa. "He's the Auror who accompanies me on my day trips. I invite him back for tea and cake most days to show my gratitude."

Hermione couldn't help but smile. Of course it would be Harry. Harry, who knew exactly what it was like to be a prisoner in your own home.

She was acutely aware of Draco's eyes on her, prickling the back of her neck, but when she looked at him, his eyes were unreadable.

"Draco, dear, why don't you give Hermione a tour of the Manor whilst I check on the kitchens?"

Draco nodded. "Of course. What a wonderful idea, mother."

Narcissa gave her a final smile before she disappeared, silver robes trailing behind her.

Draco turned to Hermione. "This way."

"You didn't know about Potter," he pointed out as they ascended the stairs, hands behind his back.

"No."

"You haven't seen him?"

Hermione licked her lips, shaking her head. "Not since I last saw you, no."

Draco was quiet for a long moment and when she glanced at him, she saw him frowning.

"Where have you been staying over summer?"

Hermione looked away, pretending to be interested in the old paintings on the wall, answering casually, "I've been at home."

He stopped walking. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Hermione didn't slow down. She kept her pace measured, even though she had no idea where she was going, hoping her body didn't give away how close her heart was to breaking.

Shrugging, she said, "You didn't ask."

"Hermione."

She stopped too, but didn't turn around to face him. Hermione closed her eyes, taking deep breaths, hating the way each one shook and caught in her throat. She could feel a sob blossom in her chest.

His footsteps were quiet, muffled by the carpet, but she still heard him coming to stand behind her, feeling the warmth of him so close to her back. Draco's fingers brushed her bare arm.

"Is home-?"

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. A tear slipped through. "My parents' house. It's empty but all I had to do was remove the wards. It's pretty much as I left it."

"Why didn't you tell me?" he murmured.

She shook her head. He stepped closer, arm reaching around her, resting across her collarbones, tugging her back into his chest. Draco dropped his chin on her shoulder, leaning his head against hers, his breath and words warm on her ear, "Stay here. You can have an entire wing to yourself, if you'd like. Free access to the library, anything. Just don't go back there alone."

Hermione brought her hands up to hold his arm. He was warm and solid and she wanted nothing more than to melt against him because he felt to be everything holding her up.

Instead, she cleared her throat and said, "You're not a very good tour guide."

Draco laughed slightly and he came to her side, offering her his arm. "Terribly sorry."

They began again, walking along the unending corridors, Draco taking his role much more seriously, opening doors to empty rooms for her to nosy in, telling her stories about who had inhabited them, who had died in them, which portraits to watch out for, which portraits were good to go to for a long chat about every subject that existed. They stopped again outside a door on what felt like the far end of the manor.

Draco hesitated.

"Who died in this one?" she teased him.

He glanced down at her, opening the door and letting her in. "Nobody yet."

Hermione entered, grinning, but her grin faded when her eyes perused the room. The walls were a deep blue, the colour of a sky at midnight, with a deep brown wooden chest of drawers and matching wardrobe set against the nearest wall. The large four-poster bed, curtains drawn and tied to each post, took up the most space, with dark blue bedding and silver pillows. The windows were wide and tall, framed with heavy drapes, and a door stood between them, opening onto a white balcony.

There were little pieces of Draco scattered throughout. His Slytherin scarf was tied around the bedpost, as well as the scarf she had knitted him for his birthday. There was a towering bookshelf which Hermione couldn't help but stop in front of, ignoring Draco's snort behind her, and she spotted the complete collection of Shakespeare, as well as a few other Muggle classics, and an array of magical theory books that had her breath quickening. In front of the spines were what looked like children's toys, including a metal dragon that sprang into life and bounced like an excited puppy when she went to touch it, causing her to laugh.

There were plants on his desk in the corner, spiky cactuses and miniature flowers, and quills with all different feathers in their ink pots. Under the desk was his school cauldron, filled with ingredients.

"What are you making?" she asked, tipping her head towards it.

Draco shrugged. "I like experimenting."

Sure enough, as Hermione wandered closer, she noticed the journals piled high, picking one off the top and flicking through it, revealing pages of notes and instructions, discoveries and reminders about potions he'd practised or read about. She devoured each page with wonder.

"Draco, this is incredible."

"I shouldn't be surprised it's the books and schoolwork that interests you, Granger," he replied, but there was some touch of fondness in his voice that had her smiling.

"Well, things haven't changed. Not really."

Draco smiled slightly. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, watching her.

"I never have thought I'd get Hermione Granger in my room," he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. His cheeks flushed pink.

"It's not what I expected," she admitted, looking around. Her eyes settled on him. There was a smile in them. "But then again, neither are you."

Draco laughed again, nervously this time. "Dare I ask what you expected?"

"Of the room or yourself?"

His voice was low when he said, "I'm not brave enough to ask of myself."

Hermione put the journal back on the pile, turning to face him.

"I expected you to be cruel and callous," she said, moving closer, "to call me names and think little of me. I expected you to not care, to not give a damn about anyone but yourself... I didn't expect you to offer me a solution for my insomnia, to let a boy beat you up because you could see he was breaking and it might fix him for a while. I didn't expect you to care so ferociously and passionately, to love just the same. I didn't expect to have you be the one person in my life I have come to depend on more than anyone else."

She only stopped when she was inches away from him, every word breathy and warm on his lips. Hermione brought her trembling hands up to rest on his waist, thumb drawing patterns over his shirt. Draco's eyes darted between hers. His throat locked and he swallowed audibly. His hands remained limp at his side but he flexed his fingers, his palms sweated.

"Hermione..."

She stood on her tiptoes, hands tightening in his shirt, holding her lips to his, not quite touching. Draco moved then, one hand quickly coming up to hold her face, stroking some of her hair back, the other steadying her hip.

He looked at her lips, then at her eyes and shook his head slightly.

"Are you sure?"

Hermione nodded, leaning closer, closing her eyes, feeling his hand clutch her hip so hard she wondered if bruises would blossom tomorrow morning. Their lips touched, briefly, so fleetingly and it felt like everything was falling into the place, the shattered world finally finding itself complete again-

"Draco!" They jumped away as his mother's voice floated up to them. "Hermione! Dinner is ready."

Staring at one another, they remained close, unable to separate.

"I'll have the House Elves prepare a room for you," murmured Draco, brushing her hair back before he pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead and stepped away.

Hermione's head felt light but she frowned, calling after him, "You have House Elves?"

"We pay them, Granger, don't get your knickers in a twist!"


	31. The Burrow

**AN: Okay, apologies have to be made because this feels like the longest I've made you guys wait for an update! I've just been incredibly busy, probably the busiest I've ever been! I finished sixth form and my A-Levels just before the summer, then I worked for six weeks on a summer programme for teens, THEN I went on an impromptu holiday to Spain with one of my colleagues and then I found out I got into Oxford University to study English Language and Literature (!). I'm blown away. I really struggled this year with my exams and I thought that was it for my dream but I've somehow done it. I wanted to share it with you because you guys have been my biggest encouragement for my writing and I feel like I owe a reason as to why this chapter is so incredibly late! I hope it was worth the wait. Thank you for inspiring me and encouraging me to write. You keep me motivated. I truly admire you all.**

 **Chapter Thirty One- The Burrow**

It looked to grow from the earth up; a tower of rickety and uneven bricks risen from the ground, stacked several stories high, windows dotted about randomly and shedding light, absorbing and then reflecting the sunset, into which four or five chimneys disappeared. There was more light radiating from under the front door, seeming to make the entire house glow and pulse with warmth. Laughter spilled from the kitchen windows and a kettle whistled shrilly.

Around the sloping grounds were fat, brown chickens, dark shapes moving through the shadows of the evening, clucking and fretting. The small yard in front of the house was mainly vegetable plots and large cauliflowers and carrot leaves were guarded by grisly looking gnomes, bearing teeth and ceramic weapons. Extending around the side of the house, the garden opened down into a wide, overgrown field, sitting on the lawns of a lazy river which trundled by, tripping over stepping stones that led to what resembled an orchard, though it was surrounded by high trees, making it difficult to tell. Makeshift Qudditch hoops poked out from between the foliage and apples hung heavy and ripe from the branches. An invariable number of sheds stood, or rather, leaned precariously, about the back garden, wind whistling through the wide cracks, padlocks tinkling like bells.

In the front yard, buried in the dirt, was a lopsided sign, which simply read, THE BURROW.

"Relax," Hermione murmured as they stared up at the house. "Harry invited you for a reason."

Scathingly, Draco retorted, "Yes. _You_."

They were still a little windswept from their apparation, patting down hair and straightening their clothes. The last of the summer sun was warm on their cheeks, causing Draco to roll his sleeves up, whilst the breeze that tickled through the undergrowth had Hermione fidgeting to pull her summer dress down.

She rolled her eyes and jabbed him in the side, causing him to jerk away from her. "No. Because times have changed."

Draco looked away, eyes refocusing on the building in front of them. He muttered sulkily, "It doesn't even look like it could stand without magic."

A sharp thwack at the back of his head shut him up.

"Do try not to make such comments in the presence of our hosts, Draco. It's impolite," said Narcissa, pursing her plum-coloured lips and pulling her gloves off, one finger at a time. "Now, I do believe we have a party to attend."

She stalked past the pair of them, stopping only to knock on the decrepit barn-door. They followed her dumbly.

"Don't be nervous," Hermione whispered, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

Draco swallowed, eyes trained on the door, chest slow and heavy. "What do I have to be nervous about? Our families only hated each other for my entire life."

"The Weasley's aren't like that."

"I dread to think-"

But before he could express what so horrified him to consider, the front door was flung open, the orange light of the kitchen mingling with the muted palette of dusk and Molly Weasley was upon them.

"Hermione! How lovely to see you," she pulled the younger girl into a tight hug, rubbing her back heartily, swaying them. Hermione closed her eyes, shoulders dropping, melting into the mother's embrace.

Molly stepped back and Hermione's arms fell limp by her side. The Weasley matriarch beamed, cupping her face. "Harry and Ron are inside, dear. They're so excited to see you."

Hermione glanced back, and it seemed it was only then that Molly noticed the other two guests standing in her front garden. Her eyes widened slightly and she fumbled for something to say, wiping her hands on the apron around her waist.

Narcissa, ever the practised lady, stepped forward and smiled. "Mrs Weasley, it's a pleasure to be invited to your home."

That was all it took for Molly to melt out of her momentary surprise and she patted the brickwork and said, "Well, it's not much, but it's home."

"It's lovely," beamed Narcissa.

Molly seemed to swell with pride and she hurried the two women indoors, hastily kissing Narcissa on the cheek when the other woman greeted her formally, moving to follow them in when she turned back.

Draco swallowed, freezing, a deer caught in headlights.

"Draco." Molly smiled and she was on him in an instant, enveloping him in her arms, tugging him down to her height. He tensed, breath catching in his throat. "I'm very glad they exonerated you."

"I wouldn't call it that," he managed to get out, though he brought his hands up to pat her awkwardly on the back.

"Anything that isn't Azkaban is a pardon. You have to know that. Nobody blames you here, love."

Draco's hand faltered and he caught Hermione's gaze over Mrs Weasley's shoulder, framed as she was by the kitchen light, looking like some ethereal angel sent to keep him on track. She smiled slightly at him before she disappeared inside and he let himself relax, head slumping onto Mrs Weasley's shoulder, holding her back, clenching his eyes shut.

It was only when she tapped his back did he move, saying softly, "Come now, dear, the food will be burning. Let's get you fed," and Draco stepped back hurriedly and followed her into The Burrow.

The inside was no less peculiar than the outside, he realised, eyes taking in the circular downstairs, from the copper pots and pans hanging overhead to the two stoves working overtime and the long wooden table decked with enough mismatched chairs for the entire Weasley clan. On the far side of the kitchen was a doorframe but no door, through which an endless stream of voices spilled and Harry emerged quite suddenly.

"Hermione?"

The grin broke out across his face as he came towards them, wrapping Hermione up in his arms before she could even reply. She buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, squeezing him tightly, breathing him in. "Happy Birthday, Harry."

She felt the warm rumble of his chest as he muttered, "I've missed you. Thank you for coming."

"How long has it been?" she asked as he set her down.

There was a slight stubble clinging to his jaw and his hair had curled around his ears but he didn't look tired. She was struck suddenly that it didn't matter how long it had been, it was too long regardless and she'd missed him. She'd missed her best friend.

Harry seemed to feel it too for he pulled her in for another hug, arm wrapped loose around her shoulders, chin resting on her head. Hermione closed her eyes and leaned into him.

When he let her go, he gave her another smile, full to brimming with all his sweetness and love, before his eyes snagged on something over her head and she stepped aside to let him greet everyone else.

Narcissa's face relaxed, her lips curving into a much more natural smile. "Harry," she greeted, folding him into her arms as soon as he got close enough. She was not a short woman and so Harry could lean his head against hers as they embraced.

"Narcissa. I'm so glad you could make it."

"Nonsense," she smiled again when they released one another. "I wouldn't miss a good party for the world. It's been a terribly long time since I was invited to one."

Harry smiled at her, though it was lopsided and bordering on sad, so he offered to take her coat, folding it over his arm. He returned once he'd hung it in the cupboard by the stairs, shaking Draco's hand as the younger Malfoy and Mrs Weasley came into the kitchen.

"I have someone I want you to meet," said Harry, not looking at either Malfoy, but leading the way through the kitchen and into what appeared to be the living room, if the number of settees and chairs and cushions was anything to go by.

Harry crossed the room, stopping just in front of the windows, where a woman stood with her back to them, looking out into the garden. He cleared his throat. "I believe you two know each other quite well."

The woman turned and Narcissa faltered; the polite smile slipped from her face, eyes wide and tearing, plum lips grappling for something, anything, to say to the sister she hadn't seen in decades.

"Andy?" she whispered.

Andromeda inhaled sharply. "Cissy?"

Narcissa all but fell into her older sister's arms, trembling hands painstakingly mapping out the kind, brown eyes of her childhood, the lips that always used to know what to say to make her laugh and to cheer her up, the wrinkles that had set in during the interregnum of their relationship. But she was instantly recognisable as her favourite sister, despite the marring of age.

"Gamma, gamma!"

Narcissa shot around, eyes wide, watching as Mr Weasley entered the room, struggling to hold onto the squirming and wriggling child, who all but launched into his grandmother's arms when he got close enough.

"Teddy," lulled Andromeda, smoothing down his hair. "Did Arthur take you to see the gnomes?"

But the child was preoccupied with her jewellery, twirling his hands around her long necklace, and darting his eyes to her face to see her reaction. Andromeda caught her sister's expression and smiled softly.

"Teddy, this is Auntie Cissa. Say hello please."

The baby giggled, pretending to be shy, burying his face in his grandmother's chest and peeking out at her. Narcissa leaned closer and tickled his tiny knuckles, but her smile cracked and faltered when she looked at her sister.

"I'm so sorry about your daughter," she whispered.

A tear slipped from Andromeda's eye, falling slowly down her cheek, and she reached out and took her hand, squeezing it. Narcissa felt suddenly like a little girl again, lost and small, guided by her big sister, safe at last. Home.

 **oOo**

Draco faltered when they were led into the living room, suddenly short of breath, claustrophobia making him stumble backwards. Every seat was occupied and the eyes fell on him instantly. During the war, he'd become quite good at taking inventory of the room and the people within it, and instinct had him grappling for names to add to the faces.

Closest to them was an impossibly large man with muscled arms decorated with moving tattoos of dragons and magical creatures Draco had only read about; he was heavily freckled and tanned, but there was no mistaking him for a Weasley, even if Draco didn't think he'd ever met him personally. Beside him on the settee was who Draco knew to be Bill, owing to the fading scar across his face, and the companionship of his pretty Veela wife, who was bouncing an equally blonde and pretty baby on her knee, cooing at her. On the big olive-green armchair in the corner sat another Weasley child, though Draco had a much harder time placing him, and only, by manner of elimination, managed to discern that it must be George, the surviving twin, for the man sitting on the chair arm was clearly Percy, whom he recognised from Hogwarts. Finally, his eyes fell on Ginny and Ron, who had jumped up to greet Hermione.

Draco felt like he was drowning with all the eyes on him, as Hermione was swept into hug after hug, conversing easily with every Weasley as though they were her family. _That's because they are her family_ , a snide voice reminded him and he lingered in the doorway, not wanting to intrude.

Ron, oblivious as ever, didn't even give him the chance to feign shyness.

"Malfoy!" he bundled over, pulling him into a bear hug, slapping his shoulder as he released him. "How've you been!"

Draco glanced about the room, seeing the eyes of Ron's brothers flit away from them. He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Can't complain. What about you? Hermione says you've been quite busy in the office?"

Ron's eyes widened dramatically and he ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah," he sighed. "Even a year on, we've still got some of Voldemort's sympathisers trying to stir things up. Think they thought we'd have let off by now but we haven't had a break. It's been full steam ever since the war ended. Sometimes, it feels like we're still fighting."

He laughed but Draco shook his head. "We'll never stop fighting, Weasley. Not really. There'll always be something-"

"Draco."

He cut off, turning to see his mother holding her hand out to him, beckoning him over. Muttering some half-hearted excuse, Draco ducked his head, crossing the room to see her. He didn't think he could face the expression on Ron's face. His stomach felt heavy as lead but he managed to make it to the window without hurling or collapsing or being swallowed by the garish rug covering the floorboards.

His mother was beaming, positively glowing, looking as youthful and free as he had ever seen her that he stopped in his tracks. She took his hand and tugged him closer, pulling him down to kneel at the side of the chair and said breathlessly, "Draco, this is your cousin, Teddy, Aunt Andromeda's grandson."

His lips parted. The woman in the chair beside his mother's, Aunt Andromeda, resembled his mother only faintly on first glance, looking much more like Bella, but when Draco blinked, her hair had grown several shades lighter, laced through with silver, and her eyes were a coffee colour, similar but darker to Hermione's. She had a kinder face, mellow eyes, laughter lines, evidence of a happy life, which made her look nothing like Bellatrix at all.

"Hello, Draco," she smiled. She didn't sound like his mother, nor Bella. Her voice was warm and rich, throaty from a lifetime of laughter. "I don't suppose we've ever met. I came to visit you once when you were a baby but I doubt you remember."

Draco swallowed. He shook his head slightly but a giggle drew his attention and he could only stare as the child on his Aunt's lap squealed in delight, his mousy brown hair draining of colour, lightening at an alarming rate, until it was as blond as Draco's own.

Narcissa gasped, squeezing her son's hand. "Oh, he likes you. Draco, look."

But before he had chance to grapple for a reply, Mrs Weasley appeared suddenly in the doorway, cheeks pink, hair wild, wiping her hands on her apron. "Food's ready!"

The group made their way from the living room, through the kitchen and back outside, following her to a long table she had decorated and set in the garden, surrounded by levitating lanterns, the food lining the centre like it always did at Hogwarts.

Harry dropped her a hug and kiss on the cheek as he passed, murmuring his thanks, which a flustered Molly half-heartedly waved away.

Draco stayed back, waiting for the party to seat themselves, noticing his mother's hand was still encased in her sister's.

"Draco."

His eyes sought her out. Hermione beckoned him over, gesturing the place next to her, which he took gratefully. His mother sat beside him, Andromeda on her left. Harry and Arthur headed and footed the table as birthday boy and patriarch respectively.

There were plates of beef joints and gammon steaks, chicken wings and turkey, surrounded by smaller bowls of golden roast potatoes, jugs of gravy, dishes overflowing with peas. There were massive Yorkshire Puddings, black puddings, new potatoes, mashed potato. The dinner guests dived on the food and the meal was underway.

"Oh!" Hermione gasped suddenly, hand delving into her bag to procure a small white and spotted rubber duck, which she presented to Mr Weasley, leaning across the table to pass it to him. "As promised."

Alight with childlike wonder, the Weasley patriarch accepted the gift with painstaking care, holding the object on the palm of his hand and inspecting it closely. "Why, Hermione, you truly are my favourite guest."

Hermione laughed a little, catching Draco's frown. She lowered her voice, "Mr Weasley is interested in Muggles so I try to bring him something from the Muggle world every time I come visit."

Draco raised his head in understanding, eyeing the duck, which was now floating in Arthur's wine glass much to Molly's annoyance, with evident distaste. "And what is the function of that, exactly?"

"Bath time companion."

"Bath time- _what?!_ Muggles need companions for baths? _"_

But Hermione just tipped her head back and laughed at the incredulity in his voice and the conversation was dropped.

"Honestly, Narcissa," exclaimed Molly, leaning over the table to pile Draco's plate high with a second helping. "What have you been feeding this boy? He's all skin and bone!"

Narcissa smiled, her lips tight, her eyes sad, though her chin remained poised and high. "I'm afraid I haven't been around to do much mothering."

The table fell quiet. Even Teddy seemed to feel the change in the mood for he stopped chattering and sucked his thumb.

Molly paused and then leaned further so that she could rest her hand on Narcissa's. "You're here now. That's what matters."

Draco passed his plate willingly to her, letting her fill it up. Before he tucked in, he noticed her do the same to Harry and Ron and felt a rush of fondness for the mad woman.

 **oOo**

They sung Harry _Happy Birthday_ , after Ginny had slapped a plastic cone hat around his chin, and Teddy had been passed along the table to perch on his knee. The toddler squealed in delight, raking his fingers through the icing on the cake, much to Harry's amusement and Molly's chagrin.

Draco found himself laughing along, knee bumping into Hermione's, her tinkling laugh ringing in his ears, causing him to turn to her. Just past her, he caught Harry's gaze and the other man grinned at him, the lanterns above their heads dancing in his eyes.

 **oOo**

They retired to the living room, blissfully full, chatter lulling, resuming their seats. Draco perched on the windowsill by his mother's chair, watching as Charlie conjured wisps of dragons to entertain Teddy and Victoire on the floor.

His mother reached behind her to touch his wrist. He looked down at her.

"Draco, be a dear and make your aunt and I some tea, won't you?"

He pulled himself up to his full height, brushing her shoulder with his fingers as he passed her.

Molly grabbed his wrist on his way across the room and said, "I'll have one too, since you're making one, dear. Oh, Arthur, do you want a tea? Does anybody want a cup of tea?"

The kitchen was empty when he entered, quiet crashing down around him. Draco moved over to the kettle, noticing with a jolt that it was a Muggle contraption and thanking his stars that Hermione had shown him how to use one. He flicked the switch and looked around for some cups, sourcing them in the cupboard above his head, adding the teabags and pouring the water once the kettle whistled.

"This used to be the start of a joke."

Draco's head shot in the direction of the voice, spoon slipping through his fingers and clattering against the cup.

George stood in the doorway, leaning against the cupboard. His head was tilted slightly, which only added to his lopsided appearance, the gaping emptiness on the left side of his head where his ear should have been owing to the origin of such a fact. He wasn't quite as devilishly carefree as Draco remembered him being at Hogwarts; the former Weasley twin's hair had been cut short, visibly shaved off, so all that remained was a buzz of orange, little cuts scabbing and interspacing the uneven spikes. He stood with his long, gangly arms folded across his chest, though his hands shook and his shoulders were drooped, white shirt untucked from his jeans.

Draco couldn't stare at him for long, turning back to the task at hand. There was something about George's sunken eyes, the ghost of a forgotten grin haunting his lips.

He continued, voice raising, "Malfoy and his mum come for dinner…"

The joke was open-ended. No punchline followed. Draco swallowed and glanced at him to find that George was still standing on the other end of the kitchen, as far away as possible whilst still standing in the room.

"How'd it end?"

George huffed a laugh, scratching his chin. "Very differently to this. You're not as slimy nor as gittish as I remember."

Draco choked on a laugh, leaning back against the counter and folding his arms. "Thanks. I don't think many of us stayed the same."

A shadow flitted across George's face and Draco sobered, grappling for an apology. His eyes squeezed shut. "I didn't mean-"

"No, you're right. No point sugar-coating it. Everything's different now." George moved further into the kitchen, dark blue eyes clinging to sink and pot and plate, scraping over the remnants of his childhood home as though each memory pained him. He chuckled but it was bitter. "Even if everything looks the fucking same."

Draco stared at him. He wondered if he was as unrecognisable to himself, if he looked in the mirror and didn't immediately recognise the haunted man with the naked head and naked soul staring back. He wondered if, like Draco, he didn't like who he was faced with. Or if maybe George looked in the mirror and saw his brother.

George scratched at his head, ran his palm across the top of his skull. "It's easy to forget and then Draco fucking Malfoy and his mum comes for dinner and I remember that the world's off its rocker and everything is different now."

Draco tried to smile. The kitchen was deafening in its peacefulness, the light spilling in from the sunset outside, blinding. The world seemed a little garish, a little bit too much. "I'm sorry," he somehow managed to get out.

George stared at him. His eyes flicked away. "Your tea will be cold."

Draco turned away, taking as many cups as he could carry, wordlessly levitating the others to lead the way. The kitchen was silent and he didn't look back as he crossed it, footsteps quiet but audible on the stone.

"Thank you, Malfoy."

Draco froze in the doorway, eyes suddenly blurring, fist clenching so hard he could feel his fingernails stinging his palm around the scorching handle. He had the urge to run, but his legs remained rooted, heavy and unmoving. His breath shook as it left his mouth.

Despite his better judgement, he looked back.

George hadn't moved but his eyes were pink underneath, his cheeks pale, starkly white against the shock of his freckles. He took a shuddering breath. "For coming to Fred's funeral. I didn't know if I imagined it but that hair's a dead giveaway."

Draco swallowed thickly. "I'm sorry," he said again.

George nodded. "So am I."

 **oOo**

It was nearly dark when he escaped outside for some air, relishing in the stillness of the night, breathing freely for what felt like the first time that evening. Hearing voices, Draco ducked against the side of the house.

"-could've stayed here! You know you're always welcome here!"

It was unmistakably Ron's voice, the incensed and incredulous tone recognisable from a mile away.

"I know that!" Draco tensed. Hermione continued, voice strained, "I was perfectly content to stay at home-"

"Don't give us that." Harry was tired and quiet in comparison to his friends. "Don't act as though it didn't kill you to be there without your parents. I've been there, Hermione. I know how it feels. I know it's agony."

There was silence. And then- Hermione's small voice, "I thought I could cope."

"I just don't get why you went to him instead of us," said Ron.

Draco swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He pressed his back closer against the brick.

"I didn't plan on going to anyone," she replied irritably. "He found out and offered me a room at the Manor. Not even a room, an entire wing. Said I wouldn't have to see him if I didn't want."

"So you've been bunking with Malfoy?"

"The Manor isn't the same place it used to be," said Harry quietly. "You can forget what happened there."

"Can you?" demanded Ron. "Can _you_ , Hermione?"

"I can," she said softly. "I actually feel at home there. Or as at home as I can, all things considering."

Draco heard the smirk in Harry's voice when he said, "And the size of the library helps, of course."

"Of course," she laughed. Then, after a moment, "Draco helps too."

He felt his heart speed up in his chest, blood pounding in his ears, and willed for it to tame itself so that he could hear the rest of the conversation, but Ron only sighed loudly and said, "I know."

"I'm heading back inside," said Harry. "You coming?"

"Yeah. It's getting cold."

"Hermione?"

"No, you go ahead. I'll be in soon."

Muffled footsteps came closer and Draco pressed himself flat against the side of the house, hoping to somehow disappear into the early night shadows as Harry and Ron passed by, disappearing round the corner and into the kitchen. His breath left his lips as a shaky exhalation.

Bracing himself, he rolled his sleeves up, wiped his hands on his trousers, before stepping away from the house. He spotted her figure instantly, down by the riverbank, summer dress fluttering around her legs.

"Fancy seeing you here," said Draco when he got close enough, smiling down at her.

Hermione tipped her head up to look at him, smile soft and lazy on her lips, and wrapped her arms around herself. "I think it's safe to say Teddy likes you."

Draco grimaced. "Children don't tend to like me. I don't know what to do with him."

"It's sweet," she said, smiling to herself, eyes cast out over the river.

"It doesn't matter anyway. It's not like I'm ever going to have kids of my own."

Her head shot to him then and he froze.

"You wouldn't have kids?" asked Hermione, suddenly serious.

Draco frowned. "You would?"

"Well. Of course. I always assumed I would."

"Really? You always struck me as a lonely old spinster who'd keep the exclusive company of books and cats."

This time, he managed to dodge as she moved to hit him.

"That's horrid!" she gasped but Draco could only laugh at the affronted expression on her face.

"Would you rather I lie to you, Granger, to make you feel better?" he asked, faux-solemnly.

Hermione gaped at him, stuttering over an answer, before she managed to cry, "That's beside the point! You shouldn't be thinking such cruel things anyway!"

"Not all of us can be patron saints who only think pure thoughts, Granger."

"Why don't you want kids anyway?" she asked after a moment.

Draco pressed his lips into a thin line. Eventually, he said, "I think I've done enough damage for one lifetime, don't you?"

"Don't speak like that."

He didn't reply. He didn't know how if he was to speak any differently.

"I received a letter from McGonagall just before we came here," began Hermione hesitantly. Draco looked at her, but her eyes were cast over the garden, soaked in the very last of the summer sun.

"Oh? She's not had you spying on me, has she? That sounds like something the old bat would do-"

"She offered me a job."

His head shot to her, only to find that she was now watching him, eyebrows furrowed, teeth worrying the seam of her lip. Instinctively, Draco reached out, thumb pulling her lip free. "Don't do that."

He hadn't noticed but he'd stepped closer, so that not even the stragglers of fading light could escape through the space between them. His fingers lingered on her jaw.

"Why not?" she whispered.

"Might scar."

"Scars heal."

His eyes flicked between both of hers. "You know that's not true."

Draco didn't move away but he dropped his hand and she seemed to breathe more easily. He cleared his throat and tried to steady himself. "What job?"

"Astronomy Professor," replied Hermione, sounding entirely unaffected but her voice was a little too loud for the quiet of the night. "She apologised for being so last minute but said that she struggled to find anyone over the summer. And I got the highest marks ever recorded in the N.E.W.T."

He rolled his eyes. "Shock."

She smacked him but there was a small, proud smile on her face, making her cheeks and eyes glow. Draco couldn't quite control the smile from curling his own lips.

"Do you have any more details about your placement yet?"

His face drained and he stepped back, stumbled, and said, "No. I haven't heard a thing."

Hermione frowned, face crumpling in disappointment, and he tried to ignore the pang in his chest. She took a deep breath, shoulders rising high, and said chirpily, "Well, at least you'll be put out of your misery tomorrow!"

"Yes," he replied, "hopefully, with a well-aimed _Avada_ -"

She punched his arm hard before he could finish. "Don't joke about that! It's not funny!"

"Jeez, Granger, I wasn't joking!"

Hermione huffed, shaking her head, her long, lion's mane of curls thrown over her shoulder. Her lower lip protruded out in a sulk and Draco, having stared at her, awaiting her mood change, flicked it when she remained adamantly silent and unwilling to talk to him.

He laughed when she jerked away, eyes narrowing into a scowl as his laughter only got louder.

"I can't believe I willingly agreed to spend another year with you," she huffed.

Draco smiled at her and her nose wrinkled. "You look pretty tonight, Granger," he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Hermione blinked at him, then a blush the colour of the deepest sunset blossomed across her skin, colouring her cheeks, stretching down her neck. She stared at him, her eyes flicking between his, lips parted as though a breath had snagged at the back of her throat.

He wished he was braver. He wished he was someone else, standing in front of the girl he liked, with the courage to kiss her goodnight. He reached up and brushed a curl away from her face.

"Goodnight, Granger," said Draco quietly, and he left her standing in the dawning moonlight because he couldn't bear to face her, the constant reminder of everything he couldn't have but could have had if only he'd been better.

"Goodnight, Draco."


End file.
